Nr. 


THE   VILLAGE 


RUSSIAN 


PRESSIONS 


ERNEST  POOLE 


WS"^^ 


ft*;.!!! 


mmm. 


^■■■^" 


■,<5'i»iS 


lr-s-;>!: 


I 


'-^ 


THE  VILLAGE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NBW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE  VILLAGE 

RUSSIAN  IMPRESSIONS 


BY 

ERNEST  POOLE 

Author  of  "The  Harbor,"  "His  Family,"  etc. 


J13etti  gork 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1918 

AU  rightt  reserved 


Copyrieht,  1918 
By  The  American  National  Red  Cross 


copytiglit,  1918 
By  The  Republic  Publishing  Company,  Inc. 


COPTEIGHT.  1918 

By  ERNEST  POOLE 


Set  up   and  electrotyped.     Published,   October,   1918 


PK 


-%/L  UNIVERSITY  OF  CM>lFOilNlA 

*=^  SANTA  BARBARA 


TO  M.  A. 


The  author  acknowledges  the  courtesy  of  the 
editors  of  The  New  Republic  and  The  Red  Cross 
Magazine  in  permitting  the  reprinting  in  this  book 
of  certain  passages  which  first  appeared  in  their 
magazines. 


THE  VILLAGE 

CHAPTER  I 


*'/^^  H,  Tarasov,  hurry  up!  " 

V>/  Iri  iTiy  hotel  room  in  Petrograd,  Tarasov 
was  doing  his  packing.  I  had  already  finished  mine. 
It  was  a  stifling  afternoon  in  August,  19 17,  and  we 
were  trying  to  get  off  for  a  trip  to  a  little  village  deep 
in  the  heart  of  the  country.  But  I  had  small  hope 
of  catching  the  train.  My  companion  was  a  man 
about  forty,  huge  of  limb  and  nearly  bald.  His  face 
was  flushed  and  perspiring.  A  vast  disorderly  heap 
of  belongings  lay  all  around  him  on  the  floor,  and  he 
was  mauling  things  about  with  a  kind  of  desperate 
patience.  To  my  imprecations  he  said  not  a  word. 
I  heard  him  panting  softly. 

In  Petrograd  and  Moscow  and  in  smaller  cities, 
Juvenale  Ivanovitch  Tarasov  had  for  many  weeks 
been  my  interpreter  and  friend,  I  had  tried  three 
other  interpreters,  two  of  them  Bolsheviki  and  the 
third  one  a  Cadet.  Each  had  looked  at  Russia 
through  his  political  party  eyes.  The  value  of  Tar- 
asov to  me  was  that  he  belonged  to  no  party  at  all. 

1 


2  THE  VILLAGE 

He  belonged  to  Russia.  He  was  a  mixer.  His 
view  of  his  country  had  been  formed  through  a  career 
in  which  he  had  been  a  farmer,  a  chemical  engineer, 
a  high  explosives  expert  and  a  maker  of  violins,  a 
banker's  clerk,  a  street  traction  man,  a  business  pro- 
moter, a  dreamer,  an  anthropologist  for  two  years, 
a  traveler,  a  great  reader  and  an  eager  translator  of 
all  kinds  of  foreign  books.  Years  before  in  Russia, 
when  I  had  first  known  him  there,  he  had  been  trans- 
lating Booker  T.  Washington's  "  Up  From  Slavery." 
Then  he  had  tackled  another  book  and  had  come  to 
me  with  a  puzzled  air,  for  he  could  not  "  get  the 
eediom."     It  was  "  Mr.  Dooley." 

Tarasov  was  a  fellow  that  one  does  not  soon  for- 
get. I  had  kept  in  touch  with  him;  and  now  on  my 
second  trip  to  Russia  I  searched  until  I  found  him  at 
last,  working  in  a  Moscow  bank.  I  telegraphed  and 
he  came  at  once.  He  arrived  in  Petrograd  on  the 
third  night  of  the  July  Insurrection,  when  the  Bol- 
shevik Red  Guards  and  the  troops  who  supported 
Kerensky  were  fighting  busily  in  the  streets.  Sev- 
eral hundred  had  been  killed.  You  could  still  hear 
shots  occasionally.  I  had  been  out  and  returned  to 
my  room  about  ten  o'clock.  Tarasov  was  waiting 
for  me  there.  At  my  entrance  he  sprang  up  and 
gave  me  a  long  Russian  embrace,  with  tears  of  real 
joy  in  his  eyes.  Then  I  drew  back  and  surveyed 
him. 

"What  has  happened  to  you?"  I  asked.  He 
was  haggard  and  pale.     Plainly  the  revolution,   I 


THE  VILLAGE  3 

thought,  had  played  the  devil  with  my  friend.  As 
I  looked  at  him,  there  came  to  our  ears  the  rattle 
of  shots  from  the  Square  of  the  Winter  Palace  close 
by.      But  Tarasov  was  thinking  of  other  things. 

"  When  she  left  me  last  week,"  he  replied,  "  for 
fifty-two  hours  I  lay  on  the  floor  like  a  man  who  Is 
dead." 

Then  he  told  me  in  detail  of  this  last  love  affair 
of  his.  What  a  beauty!  What  dark  regular 
features,  and  a  form  that  would  have  driven  the  old 
Greek  sculptors  to  despair.  In  short,  a  goddess ! 
He  grasped  my  arm  and  walked  me  about  in  Petro- 
grad  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  At  times  I 
would  pitilessly  interrupt  and  would  make  him  con- 
verse for  me  with  the  groups  of  Kerensky  soldiers 
and  Red  Guards  who,  upon  street  corners  and  out  on 
the  great  bridges  that  spanned  the  misty  Neva  under 
the  light  of  a  yellow  half  moon,  were  still  engaged 
In  a  little  affair  called  "  the  Russian  Revolution." 
But  then  my  companion  would  return  to  the  great 
topic  on  his  mind.  How  he  had  labored  with  that 
girl,  to  educate  her,  give  her  a  soul.  They  had  lived 
together  for  two  years;  he  had  begged  her  to  marry 
him,  time  and  again.  But  she  would  not.  And  now 
—  gone  !  He  described  his  comatose  condition  after 
her  departure.  He  intended  to  write  it  all  down  for 
the  benefit  of  psychiatrists.  On  and  on  and  on  we 
walked.  In  short,  a  goddess !  W^ell,  she  was  gone. 
And  what  did  he  care  for  the  girl,  after  all?  There 
had  been  many  others  and  there  would  be  more ! 


4  THE  VILLAGE 

Meanwhile  what  a  time  we  would  have !  He  would 
show  me  all  Russia  —  the  whole  revolution ! 

"You'll  leave  the  bank?" 

"  Of  course !  Why  not?  What  Is  a  bank?  "  he 
joyously  asked. 

So  our  travels  began.  Six  weeks  passed;  and  now 
we  were  about  to  start  on  the  very  best  of  our  jour- 
neys. For  well  as  Tarasov  knew  the  towns,  he  knew 
the  villages  better  still.  He  himself  was  a  small 
landowner,  and  to-day  we  were  off  to  his  estate, 
about  five  hours  from  Petrograd.  In  the  morning 
he  had  left  me  to  go  to  his  mother's  apartment  here, 
to  get  some  things  we  would  need  in  the  country. 

"  In  an  hour  I  shall  return  to  you,  my  dear,"  he 
had  assured  me. 

That  was  about  six  hours  ago,  for  on  the  street 
he  had  met  a  friend  and  they  had  had  one  of  those 
long  Russian  talks,  wandering  here  and  there  over 
the  town.  In  their  wanderings,  he  had  remembered 
to  do  as  I  had  asked  him  —  he  had  inquired  about  the 
trains.  He  had  found  there  were  three;  and  Tara- 
sov was  planning  to  catch  the  last,  which  left  town 
at  seven  that  night  and  arrived  at  a  lonely  junction 
somewhere  off  In  the  forest  a  bit  after  3  A.  M.  At 
that  hour.  If  we  could  find  a  rig,  we  would  drive  some 
thirty  versts  (twenty  miles)  to  his  estate.  This  was 
his  program.     I  looked  at  him  grimly. 

"  Tarasov,"  I  said,  "  we  have  lost  the  first  train 
because  while  you  wandered  off  into  the  future  of 
Russia  with  that  bosom  friend  of  yours,  I  was  sitting 


THE  VILLAGE  'S 

sweating  here !  We  will  now  catch  the  second  train  I 
Come  on  now  —  get  busy !     Pack !  " 

He  grew  very  gloomy  then,  for  this  meant 
haste,  which  he  despised.  He  looked  at  me  in  a 
puzzled  way,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  understand 
this  weird  Yankee  love  of  speed.  What  earthly  dif- 
ference did  it  make  whether  we  ended  our  journey  in 
the  dusk  or  in  the  dawn?  But  he  patiently  bent  to 
his  packing,  while  I  quickly  finished  mine. 

I  was  in  a  fever  to  get  off.  I  was  tired,  my  nerves 
on  edge.  I  had  had  enough  of  the  cities,  with  their 
endless  arguing,  their  shouting  crowds  and  street 
parades,  packed  meeting  halls  and  stifling  rooms, 
words  and  theories,  heated  quarrels  over  plans  as 
dry  as  dust.  I  had  felt  about  me  the  germs  of  some- 
thing wonderful  here;  something  deep,  stupendous, 
real  —  warm  as  the  very  blood  of  life.  But  I  had 
felt  it  being  chilled  and  ossified  by  dogma.  I  had 
seen  the  revolution  breaking  into  factions,  with 
strikes  and  open  rioting,  machine  guns  spraying  bul- 
lets up  and  down  the  dirty  streets.  And  then  what 
had  happened?  Just  more  talk!  I  was  tired  of 
their  politics.  I  wanted  to  get  beneath  all  that,  down 
into  the  mass  of  the  people  themselves,  to  find  again 
what  had  been  lost  —  the  great  heart  of  the  real 
revolution.  And  where  were  the  Russian  people? 
Nine  tenths  of  them  were  peasants  in  lonely  little 
villages.     I  wanted  to  sink  into  their  life. 

Since  the  war  began,  I  had  lived  in  New  York,  with 
trips  to  London  and  Berlin,  and  out  along  the  western 


6  THE  VILLAGE 

front.  I  was  sick  of  the  cities,  one  and  all,  with  their 
shrill  hates  and  jealousies,  their  war  scandals  and 
intrigues.  Again  and  again  there  had  come  to  me  a 
feeling  of  the  presence  all  around  me,  far  and  near, 
of  the  millions  of  villages  in  the  world  where  the 
silent  mass  of  the  plain  people  dwell.  I  had  done  my 
traveling  mostly  by  night;  and  often  from  a  crowded 
train  where  travelers  on  every  hand  were  arguing 
about  the  war,  I  had  looked  out  on  some  little  hamlet 
buried  in  a  forest  or  nestling  on  a  mountain-side;  and 
seeing  a  light  still  burning  in  a  dwelling  here  and 
there,  I  had  longed  to  go  into  those  huts  and  ask, 

"  What  has  the  war  done  to  you?  How  do  you 
feel  about  all  this?  " 

My  eyes  ached  from  the  red  glare  of  the  Present. 
I  wanted  to  live  for  awhile  in  a  place  where  life  ran 
deep,  and  was  quiet  enough  so  that  one  could  feel  the 
Present  not  by  itself  but  as  a  gap,  or  a  bridge, 
between  the  Past  and  Future. 

Also,  I  wanted  a  little  real  food.  The  restaurants 
of  Petrograd  had  held  more  noise  than  nourishment. 
I  had  grown  lean,  and  I  looked  forward  to  this 
country  journey  of  ours  as  to  a  camping  trip  back 
at  home.  But  could  I  get  Tarasov  into  the  spirit 
of  my  plan?  I  could  not.  When  I  gave  him  my 
purse  and  asked  him  to  go  and  stock  up  with  what 
groceries  we  might  need,  his  only  answer  was  a 
smile. 

"  All  that  we  require,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  find  at 
my  estate." 


THE  VILLAGE  7 

"  But  you  told  me  you  had  rented  your  place." 
*'  It  is  true,"  he  replied.     "  An  old  Finn  is  there 
with  two  Finnish  servants." 

"  Better  send  them  a  wire  that  we  are  coming." 
Tarasov  looked  at  me  puzzled: 
''Why?" 

*'  Because  there  may  not  be  room  enough!  " 
"  There  will  be  sufficient,"  he  replied. 
"  But  will  they  want  us?  " 
*'  Probably." 

"  Suppose  they  have  visitors  of  their  own?  " 
"  But  they  may  not  have  any  visitors." 
I  gave  up  in  despair.  It  was  hopeless  to  try  to 
arouse  in  this  man  the  least  interest  in  my  comfort. 
For  he  was  no  more  practical  than  was  the  big 
nation  to  which  he  belonged  —  no  more  practical 
than  its  warfare,  with  the  great  Brusilov  drives  far 
down  into  Hungary,  and  the  chaotic  vast  retreats; 
no  more  practical  than  its  revolution,  seething  with 
dreams  when  it  should  have  been  acting.  Juvenale 
Ivanovitch  Tarasov  was  an  impractical  man. 

On  that  hot  day  in  Petrograd,  as  he  knelt  perspir- 
ing on  the  floor,  his  eyes  fairly  bulged  with  his 
efforts,  but  nothing  seemed  to  happen  at  all.  He 
had  lugged  along  from  his  mother's  flat  four  hea\^ 
blankets  and  one  sheet  and  two  enormous  pillows. 
There  were  also  shirts  and  collars,  a  revolver  and 
a  suit  of  clothes,  a  hair  brush  and  a  cake  of  soap, 
two  towels  and  a  big  pair  of  boots,  a  safety  razor, 
many  books,   a  tooth  brush  and  a  mowing  scythe. 


8  THE  VILLAGE 

He  had  taken  the  blade  of  the  scythe  from  the 
handle  and  bound  the  two  parts  together  with  twine 
—  but  even  so  It  was  hard  to  fit  it  in  with  the  rest 
of  his  toilet  set.  All  these  things  again  and  again 
he  had  feverishly  pyramided  on  the  blankets  spread 
over  the  floor,  and  had  tried  to  draw  up  the  corners 
into  one  gigantic  bag.  So  far,  so  good.  But  the 
moment  he  tried  to  hoist  the  bag,  his  things  began 
to  dribble  out. 

Impatiently  I  came  to  his  aid.  I  am  not  much  of 
a  packer  myself,  but  with  the  help  of  some  good  stout 
twine  we  soon  made  up  a  parcel  about  the  size  of  a 
small  stack  of  hay.  I  had  rung  for  a  porter,  but 
none  came;  for  the  hotel  porters  had  gone  to  attend 
a  political  meeting  that  afternoon.  So  we  hurried 
downstairs  with  my  suitcase,  my  sleeping  bag 
and  Tarasov's  enormous  immigrant  bundle.  We 
dumped  them  into  a  cab  and  were  off. 

Of  that  clattering  drive  down  the  Nevsky,  I  have 
only  a  vague  memory  now.  I  had  seen  it  all  so 
often  —  the  same  broad  dusty  thoroughfare  with  the 
crowded  trolley  cars,  the  countless  little  open  cabs 
and  peasants'  carts  and  rumbling  trucks,  the  troops 
of  mounted  Cossacks,  the  endless  throngs  of  people 
on  foot,  Russians,  Tartars,  Gypsies,  Georgians;  the 
crowds  in  front  of  bulletin  boards,  the  speeches  on 
street  corners. 

Tarasov  leaned  back  and  mopped  his  brow,  and 
then  lit  a  cigarette.  Our  horse  was  galloping  at 
the  time  and  the  cab  was  swaying  to  and  fro,  but 


THE  VILLAGE  9 

Tarasov  knew  how  to  get  a  light  In  any  place  or 
weather.  When  we  had  slept  in  the  same  room,  the 
tiny  glow  of  his  small  weed  would  be  the  last  light 
in  the  darkness;  and,  as  he  slept  very  heavily,  in  the 
morning  as  a  rule  I  would  entice  him  back  to  life  by 
placing  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth  and  lighting  it.  He 
would  awake  with  a  smile.  He  smiled  now  as  he 
puffed,  and  surveyed  with  contempt  a  crowd  gathered 
around  a  street-speaker. 

"  How  they  talk  and  talk  and  do  nothing,"  he  said. 

He  himself  had  concocted  a  plan  to  save  the  entire 
revolution.  He  had  promised  to  show  It  to  me  in 
detail  as  soon  as  we  reached  his  village.  He  started 
to  speak  of  it  now  —  as  he  always  did  on  every 
occasion. 

"  I  was  explaining  my  plan  in  full  to  the  friend  I 
met  to-day,"  he  said.  "  I  found  him  very  sympa- 
thetlque." 

"  I'll  bet  you  did,"  I  muttered  grimly.  I  was 
thinking  of  our  train.  But  Juvenale  Ivanovitch  had 
his  mind  on  higher  things. 

"  If  these  confounded  Idiots  would  only  remem- 
ber," he  began,  "  that  nine-tenths  of  the  Russians  live 
in  villages  —  and  that  until  the  question  of  land  — " 

"  Stop  the  cab !  "  I  suddenly  cried.  "  You've  for- 
gotten those  kodak  films." 

With  a  startled  "  Ah,"  Tarasov  jumped  out  and 
followed  me  Into  a  kodak  shop.  On  the  day  before, 
they  had  had  no  films,  but  the  shop-man  had  sworn  he 
would  have  them  to-day.     He  smiled  at  me  now  and 


lo  THE  VILLAGE 

began  to  explain  how  on  account  of  the  Great  Revo- 
lution —  which  was  going  to  such  extremes  that  as 
for  himself  he  was  forced  to  believe  that  the  only- 
salvation  for  Russia  — 

"  Come  on,  Tarasov!  Can't  you  see  he  has  no 
films?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  to  get  his  views." 

"  Oh,  damn  his  views  !  " 

Juvenale  Ivanovitch  followed  me  peevishly  back 
to  the  cab. 

"  That's  a  fault  of  you  Americans,  and  a  devilish 
big  one,  too,"  he  declared,  as  we  galloped  down  the 
street.  "  Speed,  speed  —  you  must  have  speed ! 
And  that  fault  in  you  may  spoil  the  whole  world! 
For  if  in  impatience  you  give  us  up,  Germany  will 
step  into  your  shoes  and  force  herself  on  us  as  our 
friend.  And  that  will  make  the  world  a  hell !  And 
all  because  you  are  crazy  for  speed  and  will  not  take 
time  to  understand.  Here  is  a  man  belonging  to  the 
petit  bourgeoisie  —  and  he  offers  to  explain  his 
views.  But  you  for  the  mere  sake  of  catching  one 
damn  train  instead  of  another  — " 

"  Here  we  are,"  I  interrupted.  We  had  arrived 
at  the  station  twenty-five  minutes  ahead  of  time;  but 
at  first  it  seemed,  as  I  had  feared,  that  even  so  we 
had  come  too  late  —  for  at  the  ticket  window  was  a 
line  of  a  hundred  or  more,  and  by  sad  experience  I 
knew  that  now  at  any  moment  the  ticket  seller  might 
make  up  his  mind  that  the  train  was  packed  to  burst- 


THE  VILLAGE  ii 

Ing.  Then  he  would  slam  his  window  down  and  we 
should  all  have  a  three-hour  wait. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  come  too  late,"  said  Juve- 
nale  Ivanovitch.      Feverishly  I  grasped  his  arm. 

"  Tarasov,"  I  ordered,  "  go  to  that  chap  near  the 
head  of  the  line  and  ask  him  to  buy  our  tickets  with 
his."  I  do  not  propose  such  things  as  a  rule,  but 
three  hours  more  in  Petrograd  would  have  driven  me 
half  insane.     Tarasov  chuckled. 

"  Graft,"  he  said.  *'  American  graft."  He  was 
proud  of  his  Yankee  "  eedioms." 

We  got  the  tickets  just  before  the  little  window 
was  slammed  down,  and  shouldering  our  luggage  we 
hurried  through  the  gate  to  our  train. 

The  train  was  certainly  crowded.  It  fairly  bulged 
with  people  and  things,  especially  bags  and  babies. 
The  narrow  platforms  overflowed.  But  using  his 
huge  bundle  like  an  impending  load  of  hay,  Tarasov 
forced  a  breach  for  us,  and  we  clambered  up  on 
board  just  as  the  train  began  to  move.  Two  fat  little 
Chinamen  were  there.  Tarasov  lifted  them  firmly 
while  I  shoved  our  bags  beneath.  The  Chinamen 
were  placed  on  top,  both  of  them  smiling  at  the  joke, 
and  presently  they  fell  asleep.  The  small  platform 
was  crowded  to  an  ominous  degree,  with  people  cling- 
ing on  the  steps;  but  between  the  two  cars  was  a 
swaying  sheet  of  steel  about  a  foot  in  width.  On  this 
we  stepped  and  balanced  ourselves  by  a  grip  upon  the 
railing. 


12  THE  VILLAGE 

Creaking  and  groaning,  the  train  made  its  way 
through  yards  that  were  crowded  with  freight  cars 
which  no  one  as  yet  had  found  time  to  unload. 
Locomotives  stood  about,  with  bell  shaped  smoke- 
stacks like  the  ones  we  used  to  have  in  America. 
Most  of  these  Russian  engines  still  burned  little  logs 
instead  of  coal,  and  now  the  sweet  pungent  smoke  of 
wood  came  back  to  us  on  the  hot  wind.  As  we 
reached  the  suburbs  our  speed  increased,  until  we 
were  rocking  and  screeching  along  at  nearly  thirty 
miles  an  hour. 

But  this  did  not  in  the  least  prevent  Juvenale 
Ivanovitch,  as  he  balanced  on  our  sheet  of  steel, 
from  conversing  hungrily  with  his  fellow  travelers. 
These  Russians  are  surely  a  sociable  lot.  Soon  we 
were  having  a  regular  meeting  out  on  those  two  nar- 
row platforms,  with  jokes  and  laughter,  scowls,  dis- 
cussions and  tense  earnest  arguments.  Only  the  two 
little  Chinamen  slept  serenely,  undisturbed.  We 
were  on  the  Trans-Siberian  route,  and  their  placid 
faces  seemed  to  say,  "  Wake  us  up  when  we  get  to 
China."  No  doubt  they  felt  that  their  country's 
time  for  all  this  sort  of  talk  was  still  far  off.  But 
was  it?  I  asked.     I  was  not  sure. 

The  Russians  meanwhile  were  telling  each  other 
how  the  train  service  all  over  the  country  was  now 
rapidly  breaking  down.  Nobody  seemed  dismayed 
at  the  prospect.  With  keen  animation  they  dis- 
cussed how  it  would  be  to  live  without  trains ;  and  a 
large   genial   merchant   claimed   that    it   would   be 


THE  VILLAGE  13 

**  an  excellent  thing  for  us  all."  Then  we  passed  a 
forest  where  the  underbrush  was  burning,  filling  the 
air  with  so  much  smoke  that  it  was  difficult  to 
breathe.  But  did  that  stop  us?  Not  at  all.  It 
merely  led  to  a  most  absorbing  talk  on  the  forest 
problem.  The  peasants  were  jealous,  somebody 
said,  of  having  any  trees  cut  down;  for  they  felt  that 
the  forests  were  soon  to  be  theirs.  So  the  supply  of 
wood  was  low,  and  there  would  be  undoubtedly  a 
famine  of  fuel  in  the  cities  during  the  long  cold  win- 
ter ahead.  After  that,  they  talked  of  the  war. 
This,  too,  was  going  badly.  Only  one  young  ensign, 
plainly  a  born  optimist,  had  anything  good  to  say  of 
the  army.  But  when  he  described  the  improvement 
of  morale  on  his  sector  of  the  front,  a  lean  cadaver- 
ous captain  squelched  him  with  the  gloomy  remark 
that  now  not  only  the  army  but  the  entire  nation,  too, 
was  riding  for  a  heavy  fall.  After  that,  a  student 
girl  asked  me  what  we  thought  of  them  over  in 
America.  And  from  the  many  questions  thrown  at 
me  from  every  side,  I  got  the  same  impression  I  had 
so  often  had  before,  of  the  eagerness  in  Russia  to 
learn  about  American  life.  There  are  some  Rus- 
sians who  despise  us,  more  who  smilingly  criticize, 
but  the  great  mass  of  these  people  simply  want  to  be 
our  friends. 

More  and  more  travelers  left  the  train.  Tarasov 
and  his  "  sympathetiques  "  adjourned  to  seats  inside 
the  car,  and  I  was  left  on  the  platform  alone  with  the 
two  Chinamen.     The  heat  of  the  day  was  over;  the 


14  THE  VILLAGE 

rush  of  air  was  cooler  now.  The  stations  were 
smaller  and  farther  apart.  Some  were  mere  log 
cabins  with  stretches  of  forest  on  either  hand.  The 
dusk  deepened.  I  breathed  hungrily  the  fresh  piney 
air  that  came  out  of  the  woods.  Sitting  on  a  step  of 
the  car,  I  watched  the  shadowy  trees  whirl  by,  and 
the  occasional  clearings,  with  lights  shining  out  of 
windows  in  lonely  little  huts  of  logs.  It  was  good 
to  be  in  the  country. 

When  we  reached  our  destination,  Instantly  there 
was  a  rush  of  people  to  get  on  our  train.  There 
seemed  to  be  hundreds,  for  this  was  a  junction. 
How  they  shouted,  clutched  and  shoved!  But  we 
managed  to  jerk  our  bags  from  under  the  two  China- 
men, and  with  our  belongings  made  our  way  into  the 
station  restaurant,  a  large  dirty  crowded  room  with 
a  counter  running  along  one  side.  At  the  two  long 
tables,  the  clatter  and  talk  made  a  deafening  noise. 
All  kinds  of  travelers  were  here  —  officers,  soldiers, 
sailors,  civilians,  rough  simple  peasants  and  city  folk, 
agitators  from  Petrograd,  sober  merchants  from 
small  towns,  rich  and  poor  and  young  and  old, 
swarms  of  children,  babies  crying.  Here  were 
whole  families  moving;  here  were  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  people,  jarred  loose  from  their  moorings 
in  the  storm,  meeting  in  this  eddy  and  seizing  the 
chance  to  talk  it  all  over.     The  Great  Revolution  ! 

We  drank  our  tea  and  hungrily  devoured  boiled 
potatoes,  greasy  meat  balls  and  big  fresh  cucumbers. 
While  we  ate,  Tarasov  questioned  the  waiter,  who 


THE  VILLAGE  15 

discussed  in  a  cheerful  way  how  everything  in  this 
neighborhood  was  rapidly  going  from  bad  to  worse. 
The  price  for  a  conveyance  to  take  us  to  my  friend's 
estate  had  risen  to  twenty-five  roubles  —  about  three 
times  the  former  amount.  Moreover,  the  waiter 
doubted  if  there  was  a  hack  or  a  cart  to  be  hired  at 
this  time  of  night.  I  looked  reproachfully  at  my 
friend,  who  finished  his  supper  and  hurried  out.  He 
returned  and  reported  no  success. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said,  "  I  have  with  a  little 
money  persuaded  a  soldier  fellow  —  and  he  will  help 
us  carry  our  bags  to  a  steamboat  on  the  river.  It  is 
about  two  miles  from  here.  We  shall  pass  the  night 
on  board,  and  early  to-morrow  the  boat  will  take  us 
immediately  to  my  estate.  My  place  is  on  the  river 
bank.     We  shall  leap  from  the  steamer  as  it  goes 

by." 

With  a  young  husk  of  a  soldier  tramping  ahead 
with  most  of  our  luggage,  we  started  up  along  the 
track.  We  passed  first  through  the  train  yard  amid 
a  perfect  bedlam  of  hoots  and  piercing  shrieks  from 
engines.  Headlights  glared  from  every  side.  Then 
we  came  out  on  the  long  dark  road,  and  the  noise 
died  down  behind  us.  It  was  a  bleak  flat  country, 
with  little  woods  and  fields  and  marshes.  Above  us, 
on  the  high  embankment,  bare-footed  country  people 
passed  —  mere  silent  shadows.  Out  of  the  darkness 
just  ahead,  an  old  peasant  emerged  abruptly,  leading 
a  bony  little  horse.  With  a  whispered  imprecation, 
our  soldier  lad  threw  down  his  burden.     The  night 


i6  THE  VILLAGE 

air  was  warm  and  humid  here,  and  we  stood  resting 
for  a  while.  More  silent  figures  flitted  by.  A  frog 
was  croaking  in  the  marsh.  With  a  sigh,  the  soldier 
heaved  his  load  up  onto  his  back;  and  on  we  trudged. 
At  last  we  came  to  the  river.  Overhead,  the  great 
long  railroad  bridge  was  dark  except  for  some  little 
red  lights;  but  underneath  it  was  brilliantly  lighted 
by  the  glare  of  search-lights  —  there  were  two  at 
either  end.  I  could  see  armed  guards  down  there  — 
and  above  on  the  track,  by  the  little  red  lights,  the 
small  dark  shadow  of  a  soldier  pacing  slowly  to  and 
fro.  Our  road  turned  to  the  left  on  the  high  river 
bank,  then  pitched  abruptly  down  the  slope  and 
brought  us  to  the  landing.  Here  lay  a  small  river 
steamer.  She  was  absolutely  dark;  but  from  some- 
where within  her,  we  heard  a  murmur  of  voices. 
We  struck  matches,  climbed  the  gangplank  and  came 
into  a  long  low  stuffy  cabin.  We  searched  till  we 
found  a  candle  there,  and  with  this  we  explored  a 
bit.  We  could  still  hear  the  rough  murmur  of 
voices,  and  my  indefatigable  friend  scented  a  "  meet- 
ing "  of  some  kind.  Near  the  stern  we  found  a  steel 
ladder,  and  descending  we  came  down  into  a  stifling 
little  place  where  a  group  of  boatmen  —  four  of 
them  big  bearded  creatures,  and  three  hardly  more 
than  boys  —  were  intent  on  a  game  of  cards,  each 
one  with  his  pile  of  paper  money  in  front  of  him. 
They  glanced  up  at  our  intrusion,  then  went  hungrily 
on  with  the  game.  One  of  the  youngsters  gave  a 
low  laugh  and  swept  in  a  few  more  roubles.     At 


THE  VILLAGE  17 

this  a  huge  chap  with  a  short  black  beard  glared  sud- 
denly up;  his  eye  caught  mine,  and  he  stared  at  me  in 
gloomy  reproach,  as  though  blaming  me  for  his 
losses.  Tarasov  found  no  "  meeting  "  here.  In  an- 
swer to  his  questions,  they  told  us  curtly  that  the 
boat  would  start  at  six  in  the  morning,  and  that  we 
could  sleep  where  we  liked. 

We  climbed  up  again  to  the  cabin.  Along  either 
side  ran  a  narrow  seat  of  dirty  red  velvet.  Loud 
snoring  could  be  heard  at  one  end.  Tarasov  began 
to  prepare  for  the  night,  but  I  did  not  like  this  stuf- 
finess, so  I  took  my  sleeping  bag  and  went  out  on  the 
upper  deck.  Here  the  air  was  cool  and  fresh.  The 
night  was  still.  Above  me,  little  wreaths  of  smoke 
floated  out  of  the  steamer's  funnel.  I  lay  down  on 
the  deck  and  for  some  time  looked  drowsily  up  at  the 
distant  stars.  Now  and  then  a  dog  barked  in  the 
distance,  and  I  could  hear  the  tinkle  of  cow-bells 
from  across  the  river.  Presently  a  row-boat  passed, 
and  I  heard  a  low  voice  talking.  Then  from  down 
the  river  there  came  to  my  ears  a  tenor  voice  singing 
a  plaintive  melody,  in  a  rhythm  which  made  me  feel 
that  the  singer  was  rowing  —  his  head  thrown  back. 

Just  a  short  way  down  the  river  loomed  the  great 
heavy  span  of  the  bridge.  Every  few  minutes  a 
train  came  by.  With  the  shriek  of  its  engine  echo- 
ing with  a  weird  effect  against  the  limestone  quarries 
cut  into  the  high  river  banks,  the  train  would  thunder 
across  the  bridge,  leaving  behind  a  long  white  tail  of 
wood  smoke  rising  slowly  into  the  dark  vault  of  the 


1 8  THE  VILLAGE 

sky.  Nearly  all  the  trains  from  Petrograd,  that 
were  bound  for  the  Trans-Siberian  journey,  passed 
this  way.  I  thought  of  the  crowds  in  those  hot  cars, 
arguing,  arguing,  arguing;  and  I  thanked  God  I  was 
out  of  it  all  —  the  fever  and  the  endless  talk,  the 
mere  froth  and  surface  storm.  Now  and  then  I 
could  hear  the  splash  of  a  fish.  It  was  good  to  be  in 
the  country. 

I  thought  of  the  numberless  spots  like  this,  upon 
which  these  same  silent  stars  were  throwing  their 
mysterious  light  —  dark  rivers  running  still  and 
deep,  rock-bound  coasts  along  the  sea,  forests,  moun- 
tains, valleys,  plains;  and  of  the  countless  villages 
all  over  this  war-ridden  world.  Into  each  the  war 
had  come,  and  had  worked  such  changes  through  the 
years  that  life  would  never  again  be  the  same.  I 
thought  of  a  village  dear  to  me  in  the  mountains  of 
New  Hampshire.  I  had  been  there  three  months 
before.  War  had  just  begun  to  affect  it  then.  Five 
of  its  boys  had  been  drafted,  and  their  parents  were 
buying  maps  of  Europe  and  the  danger  zones.  Now 
every  day  and  every  night  their  thoughts  and  fancies 
would  be  led  out  over  the  seas  to  villages  with  for- 
eign names,  some  horribly  torn  and  blackened  by 
war,  others  with  the  buildings  standing  but  with  the 
souls  of  the  dwellers  changed.  These  villages  all 
over  the  world,  would  they  come  to  know  each  other 
any  better  after  the  war?  Only  in  such  understand- 
ing lay  any  hope  of  a  lasting  peace. 


THE  VILLAGE  19 


I  fell  asleep,  and  a  few  hours  later  I  was  awak- 
ened by  voices.  They  seemed  to  come  from  far 
below.  I  felt  daylight  and  a  fresh  damp  mist  upon 
my  face,  but  I  did  not  open  my  eyes.  Dog  tired 
from  the  night  before,  I  lay  half  dozing,  drifting 
there,  high  up  in  the  mist  and  the  light  of  the  dawn. 
Higher  and  higher,  lighter,  lighter  —  now  I  was 
soaring  in  the  clouds,  now  bathed  in  the  radiance  of 
the  sun.  But  the  earth  below  me  was  as  dark  and 
dim  as  a  dream.  It  was  like  a  great  ghostly  encamp- 
ment made  up  of  numberless  villages.  The  one  in 
New  Hampshire  was  close  by,  nestling  on  its  moun- 
tain-side. Farther  down  was  a  village  In  France 
with  tall  poplars  in  long  rows.  There  were  some 
Russian  hamlets,  too.  These  were  all  I  could  make 
out;  the  others  were  mere  shadowy  blurs.  Off  they 
scattered  over  the  earth.  Why  so  dark?  Suddenly 
I  opened  my  eyes,  for  with  a  sharp  twinge  I  remem- 
bered the  war. 

The  boat  was  enveloped  in  cool  white  mist, 
through  which  I  could  see  the  clear  blue  of  the  dawn. 
Now  the  voices  were  close  beside  me.  Travelers 
coming  on  the  boat.  I  remembered  that  the  last 
train  from  the  city  was  due  to  arrive  at  about  this 
time.  These  people  had  doubtless  come  on  the  train 
which  Tarasov  would  have  taken.  All  my  haste 
had  been  for  this.  I  smiled  grimly  at  myself.  Nev- 
ertheless, I  argued,  this  was  a  heap  sight  better  than 
sitting  up  all  night  in  a  car.     The  travelers  as  they 


20  THE  VILLAGE 

came  on  board  did  not  seem  in  the  least  surprised  to 
find  a  man  in  a  sleeping  bag.  They  took  me  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course,  a  part  of  the  Great  Revolu- 
tion, perhaps.  And  I  was  very  grateful  for  that. 
What  decent  chaps  these  Russians  were !  They  had 
gone  to  another  part  of  the  deck  and  left  me  to 
finish  my  night's  sleep. 

Later  I  was  aroused  again  by  the  coming  of  more 
travelers.  This  time  I  rolled  up  my  bag  and 
went  ashore  for  a  little  walk.  The  river  bank  had 
awakened  to  life.  On  the  barges  moored  around 
our  boat,  the  women  were  cooking  breakfast,  while 
all  along  the  waterside  the  men  were  harnessing  their 
teams  of  runty  little  mules  and  horses.  Long  sag- 
ging ropes  were  stretched  from  the  shore.  There 
were  so  many  barges,  it  seemed  a  hopeless  tangle. 
There  were  shouts  and  the  cracking  of  whips.  Six 
small  horses  in  single  file  would  begin  to  strain  on 
their  harness  and  move  slowly  up  the  tow-path,  while 
behind  a  barge  would  emerge  from  the  others  and 
start  sluggishly  up  the  stream. 

Ravenously  hungry  now,  I  went  back  on  our  boat 
and  down  into  the  cabin.  I  found  it  filled  with  peo- 
ple sitting  at  small  tables.  A  cabin  boy  was  serving 
tea.  Tarasov  was  chatting  with  a  group  of  three 
old  friends  he  had  discovered.  They  brought  out 
from  their  bags  hard  boiled  eggs  and  chunks  of  black 
bread  which  they  shared  with  us;  and  so  we  made  our 
breakfast.  These  friends,  Tarasov  explained  to  me, 
were  small  landowners  like  himself,   living  in  his 


THE  VILLAGE  21 

neighborhood.  One  was  a  country  doctor.  All  of 
them  were  of  peasant  birth. 

"  You  must  get  their  point  of  view,"  he  said. 
"  You  must  not  think  of  our  peasants  as  an  ignorant 
hopeless  mass.  It  is  not  so.  With  real  education 
they  will  build  a  very  wonderful  nation  here.  The 
proof  of  this  is  that  even  under  the  Old  Regime, 
which  treated  the  peasants  like  so  many  dogs,  strong 
men  kept  rising  out  of  them.  Some  went  to  the 
cities  and  got  rich.  In  Moscow  are  many  million- 
aires who  began  life  in  peasant  huts.  And  in  the 
villages  themselves  are  the  men  who  are  shrewd  and 
thrifty  —  like  these  three  who  are  sitting  here. 
Though  few  in  numbers,  they  are  the  natural  strong 
men  of  their  neighborhoods,  and  they  are  bound  to 
make  themselves  heard.  As  the  revolution  goes  on, 
I  think  that  all  our  Russian  life  will  fall  into  such  a 
devil's  mess  that  the  peasants  will  turn  to  these  prac- 
tical chaps.     Then  you  will  see  what  we  shall  do !  " 

Meanwhile  the  country  doctor  had  a  newspaper  in 
his  hands,  and  was  reading  to  the  others  the  latest 
news  from  Petrograd.  The  doctor  was  a  spare  little 
man  with  thin  sandy  hair,  a  snub  nose,  square  jaws 
and  small  black  eyes  that  twinkled  and  snapped 
through  his  spectacles.  As  he  read  in  a  quick  inci- 
sive voice,  the  others  listened  intently.  One  was  a 
man  about  fifty  years  old,  short,  thick-set,  with  hulk- 
ing shoulders  and  large  freckled  bony  hands,  a  heavy 
bearded  face,  blue  eyes. 

"  A  fine  government  this  is,"  he  growled,  "  getting 


2  2  THE  VILLAGE 

ready  to  rob  us  of  our  land.  Tovarlsch  (comrade) 
—  how  tired  I  am  of  that  word.  Now  any  thief  is 
my  tovarisch.  Last  week  to  our  district  court  a 
fellow  was  brought  for  stealing  a  horse;  and  he  was 
in  rags,  the  devil.  He  smiled  at  the  judge  and 
called  him  '  tovarisch.'  But  the  judge  gave  it  to  him 
right.  '  I  am  not  your  tovarisch,'  he  said.  '  You 
are  a  thief  and  I  am  a  judge !  '  But  the  fellow  in 
rags  only  laughed  at  him  and  said,  '  Then  you  are  a 
lonely  man.'  And  he  was  right,  the  scoundrel !  A 
judge  or  any  other  man  with  any  sense  or  honesty 
is  lonely  enough  in  Russia,  these  days  —  especially  in 
the  government.  What  are  they  but  a  pack  of 
thieves?  '  Save  the  revolution!  '  they  cry.  But  no 
one  says,  '  Save  Russia !  '  And  what  they  really 
mean  by  it  all  is  that  they  want  to  save  themselves. 
Now  to  prolong  their  revolution,  they  will  start  a 
civil  war.  Their  new  land  committee  here  is  survey- 
ing all  the  land,  getting  ready  to  divide  it  up.  But  if 
they  try  this  devil's  scheme  they  will  split  Russia  wide 
apart  —  for  we  will  fight  before  we  give  in !  "  The 
landowner  banged  his  huge  fist  on  the  table. 
"  Slowly,  slowly,  year  by  year  for  generations,  ever 
since  the  Emancipation  when  we  were  no  longer 
serfs,  for  the  land  we  received  we  have  paid  and  paid 
in  taxes  to  the  government.  And  now  I  say  we  will 
never  give  up!  These  socialists  talk  of  the  bour- 
geois. I  tell  you  that  the  peasant  is  the  first  bour- 
geois in  the  land !  He  will  not  give  up  what  he  has ! 
Like  iron  he  will  close  his  fists !  " 


THE  VILLAGE  23 

Then  the  other,  a  tall  stooping  man  with  black  hair 
and  a  lean  unshaven  face,  put  down  his  glass  of  tea 
and  said,  in  a  slow  impassive  tone : 

*'  I  have  worked  on  my  land  for  thirty-one  years. 
I  have  cleared  it  of  shrubs  and  saplings.  I  have 
plowed  up  fifty  desatinas  (125  acres)  of  soil  and 
have  watered  every  rod  with  my  sweat.  I  dug  out 
the  stumps  by  the  hundred.  The  land  was  all  roots, 
but  I  plowed  and  plowed,  and  then  I  harrowed  and 
harrowed  again.  Will  I  let  them  take  it  from 
me  now?  They  may  kill  me  first."  He  stopped 
with  a  frown.  And  his  big  companion  con- 
tinued: 

"  These  Bolsheviki  are  as  shrewd  a  lot  as  you 
could  find.  They  want  to  divide  all  property  here  — 
but  they  themselves  have  taken  good  care  to  sell  out 
what  they  own  and  invest  every  rouble  in  Germany. 
In  Russia  a  dozen  pawn  tickets  are  their  sole  belong- 
ings. What  do  they  care  for  Russia?  All  they  do 
is  against  the  war!  Here  in  our  district,  a  tract  of 
forest  was  to  have  been  cut  for  the  needs  of  the 
army —  and  that  was  right.  But  along  came  a  Jew 
from  Petrograd  to  tell  the  peasants  not  to  allow  it. 
*  These  forests  are  now  all  yours,'  he  said,  '  and  you 
must  not  allow  the  trees  to  be  cut !  '  I  owned  some 
of  those  trees  myself,  and  I  had  sold  them  at  a  good 
price  —  and  here  these  devils  stopped  the  sale !  I 
tell  you  they  are  all  alike !  Our  only  hope  is  in 
Mother  Moscow,  where  the  people  have  some  sense. 
They  should  cut  the  rails  to  Petrograd  and  let  that 


24  THE  VILLAGE 

city  starve  to  death.  Their  government  is  no  gov- 
ernment. Did  we  elect  these  Feinbergs,  these  Ap- 
plebaums  and  Rosenzweigs?  Are  they  our  chosen 
people?  Oh,  no,  my  friends!  They  chose  them- 
selves !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  copy  them?  Choose  yourself," 
said  the  little  doctor,  drily.  "  All  you  need  is  a  piece 
of  board.  Paint  on  it,  *  Russian  Government.' 
Then  take  it  to  Petrograd,  rent  an  office,  hang  the 
board  outside  the  door."  But  the  big  man  snorted 
angrily. 

"  They  will  not  get  a  single  grain  of  wheat  or  rye 
from  our  villages  until  they  stop  their  tricks !  "  he 
cried.  "  They  won't  make  us  open  our  granaries  by 
promising  their  money,  the  thieves,  for  their  roubles 
are  worth  nothing  at  all.  And  how  they  have 
wrecked  the  army,  too !  The  shame  of  the  Tarno- 
pol  retreat  could  have  been  avoided,  if  they  had  not 
months  before  stopped  the  death  penalty  at  the 
Front.  It  should  be  restored  both  at  the  Front  and 
in  the  Rear!  But  will  they  do  it?  Not  at  all! 
Because  these  fellows  know  too  well  that  they  them- 
selves would  be  the  very  first  candidates  for  the  gal- 
lows I  But  when  every  peasant  sees  their  game,  then 
they  will  'dance  between  heaven  and  earth.  Thank 
God,  the  Cossacks  will  soon  take  charge,  and  then  in 
our  district  we'll  use  that  old  gallows  up  on  the  hill. 
A  man  swinging  there  could  be  seen  from  far  off,  and 
it  would  be  good  for  the  scenery!  " 

The  big  man  stopped.     He  was  breathing  hard. 


THE  VILLAGE  25 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  the  country  doc- 
tor said,  softly  but  with  an  ominous  smile : 

"  These  Tovarische  speak  of  an  eight  hour  day. 
They  call  me  a  bourgeois  loafer.  '  Let  the  masses 
work,  only  eight  hours,'  they  say,  '  and  put  this  idle 
chap  to  work.'  Very  well,  brothers,  let's  see  about 
that.  I  have  worked  for  the  Zemstvo  (the  district 
legislature)  for  something  over  twenty  years,  from 
six  in  the  morning  till  twelve  at  night.  I  have  gone 
to  the  sick  all  over  the  country,  summer  and  winter. 
I  have  worn  but  three  sledges,  and  God  knows  how 
many  horses,  too.  I  could  not  tell  how  many  hun- 
dreds of  nights  I  have  spent  in  driving  around,  with 
no  sleep  to  speak  of  for  nearly  a  week.  And  out  of 
my  earnings,  bit  by  bit,  I  bought  ninety  desatinas  of 
land  —  and  by  hard  work  and  planning  I  put  the 
woodland  in  good  shape  and  the  rest  under  cultiva- 
tion. So  now  I'm  a  bourgeois  loafer,  eh?  Did  I 
not  honestly  serve  the  State  —  both  in  curing  thou- 
sands of  patients  and  in  cultivating  the  land?  But 
they  call  me  a  bourgeois,  and  my  land  must  be  taken 
away!  Suppose  that  it  happened?  What  would  it 
do?  It  would  level  down  my  standards  to  those  of 
the  lowest  peasants  here.  All  that  I  have  done 
would  be  lost!  And  Russia  cannot  risk  such  waste ! 
We  must  not  sink  down  into  the  mass;  we  must  force 
it  slowly  up  —  go  after  the  peasants  and  make  them 
stop  living  in  filth  and  every  kind  of  disease;  go  after 
the  land  and  plow  it  up  and  teach  the  peasants  how  to 
farm!" 


26  THE  VILLAGE 

This  was  the  cue  for  Tarasov  to  broach  to  them 
his  own  pet  plan  for  the  salvation  of  Russia.  Soon 
he  was  talking  eagerly.  But  I  had  heard  enough  for 
the  present.  I  left  the  stuffy  cabin  and  went  up  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air. 

The  deck  of  the  steamer  was  crowded  now,  but  I 
found  a  seat  up  in  the  bow,  where  the  fresh  delicious 
breeze  was  sweet  with  the  smell  of  the  hay  and  the 
pines.  The  wide  river  ran  smoothly  between  high 
banks,  in  a  flat  country  with  fields  on  each  side,  and 
woods  and  rolling  meadows.  Every  mile  or  so  was 
a  hamlet,  a  straggling  row  of  log  huts  and  barns; 
and  then  would  come  a  larger  village,  where  we 
would  stop  at  a  primitive  wharf.  The  banks  of  the 
river  were  lined  with  logs  that  had  come  from  the 
forests  of  the  North  and  were  bound  for  Petrograd. 
They  had  been  brought  down  the  stream  in  rafts  to 
a  cataract  above  us,  where  the  rafts  had  been  broken 
up  and  the  logs  had  come  tumbling  down,  to  be  re- 
assembled here  and  so  continue  their  journey  to 
the  distant  capital.  We  passed  several  great  un- 
wieldy rafts.  On  each  a  group  of  men  and  boys 
guided  it  with  sweeps  and  poles.  One  such  group 
was  singing.  We  met  many  peasant  fishermen,  in 
dories  and  queer  little  canoes.  When  we  stopped, 
some  of  them  came  alongside,  and  we  bought  two 
fish  for  our  dinner. 

Tarasov,  who  had  come  on  deck,  said  that  we 
were  near  his  home.  He  spoke  to  the  captain,  who 
promptly  blew  two  piercing  blasts;  and  after  that, 


THE  VILLAGE  27 

as  the  boat  slowed  down,  from  a  cluster  of  fishing 
dories  ahead,  one  was  rowed  rapidly  toward  us. 
We  hastened  below  with  our  luggage;  and  from  the 
open  gangway  there,  as  the  dory  came  alongside,  we 
threw  in  our  bags  and  jumped  after  them.  At  once 
the  steamer  went  ahead,  and  we  were  left  in  the  dory 
with  a  gray  old  peasant.  He  rowed  us  to  the  high 
wooded  bank.  We  paid  him  a  rouble,  went  ashore 
across  a  raft  of  huge  brown  logs,  and  climbed  a  steep 
and  winding  path  through  a  grove  of  white  birches, 
maples  and  firs.  We  passed  an  old  well  with  a 
bucket  and  came  to  a  large  log  cabin  above.  And 
here  Juvenale  Ivanovitch  drew  a  quiet  breath  and 
said: 

"  This  is  the  place  where  I  was  born." 


3 

The  cabin  stood  on  a  wooded  bluff.  Behind  was 
a  small  barn-yard  with  a  row  of  barns  and  stables, 
little  huddling  log  affairs.  To  one  side  was  a  hut, 
which  Tarasov  leased  for  a  nominal  rent  to  a  peasant 
who  worked  the  land  with  him  on  shares.  On  the 
other  side  was  a  ravine,  and  across  it  I  could  see 
through  the  trees  a  yellow  frame  house,  which  be- 
longed to  a  certain  Prince  C . 

"  Now  you  see  my  position,"  Tarasov  said.  "  I 
am  between  the  prince  and  the  peasant.  My  father 
was  a  peasant's  son;  my  mother  was  of  noble  birth. 
And  if  you  would  get  any  real  idea  of  our  Russian 


28  THE  VILLAGE 

life  in  Its  deeper  part,  you  must  not  forget  the  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  small  landowners  like  myself, 
scattered  all  over  the  country." 

We  entered  the  cabin  with  our  bags,  and  came  first 
into  the  kitchen,  a  roomy  place  with  brown  log  walls. 
Heavy  beams  ran  overhead,  and  one  corner  was 
wholly  filled  by  an  enormous  old  brick  stove  with  a 
massive  chimney.  The  stout  Finnish  woman  there 
seemed  to  know  Tarasov,  but  her  greeting  was  not 
cordial.  With  a  grim  worried  look  in  her  eyes,  she 
motioned  to  us  to  talk  low.  Her  master  was  very 
sick,  she  said,  and  she  had  sent  her  daughter  to  fetch 
the  doctor  from  the  town,  which  was  some  nine  miles 
away.  Cautiously  she  opened  the  door  of  a  room 
where  her  master  lay  asleep.  A  heavy  old  man  of 
nearly  eighty,  his  face  was  gray;  he  looked  very 
weak.  And  when  the  woman  had  closed  the  door, 
I  suggested  that  we  go  away.  But  Tarasov  saw  no 
reason.  There  was  plenty  of  room,  he  said;  and  be- 
sides, we  should  be  here  only  to  sleep. 

From  the  kitchen  we  had  come  Into  a  small  living- 
room.  On  one  side  was  a  glass-enclosed  porch,  and 
at  the  end  was  the  studio  of  Tarasov's  father,  who 
had  been  a  painter.  It  was  a  square  room  with 
walls  of  logs.  To  the  left  were  three  big  wmdows, 
and  to  the  right  a  great  stove  of  tile  which  extended 
up  to  the  ceiling  and  was  painted  gray  and  blue. 
There  was  a  window  at  the  end,  with  a  drafting 
board  before  It,  and  a  large  wooden  easel  nearby 
with  an  unfinished  canvas.     Others  stood  against  the 


THE  VILLAGE  29 

walls.  There  was  a  tall  chest  of  drawers  in  one 
corner,  and  a  narrow  mahogany  bed.  But  what  a 
curious  bedroom!  For  all  his  life  Tarasov  had  had 
a  passion  for  farming,  and  he  had  lived  with  his 
hobby  here.  A  mud  encrusted  American  plow 
leaned  against  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  a  harrow  lay 
on  the  floor  close  by.  Near  it  were  a  crowbar  and 
a  shovel  and  two  spades.  Beside  the  three  large 
windows  ran  a  wooden  work-bench  littered  with  tools 
of  every  kind.  Other  tools  hung  on  the  walls,  and 
there  were  skees  and  snow-shoes  and  a  rifle  hanging 
there.  Close  by  stood  a  grindstone.  I  stumbled 
over  a  rake  on  the  floor. 

"  Tarasov,"  I  said  earnestly,  "  I  hope  you  do  not 
walk  in  your  sleep." 

"  This  will  be  your  bedroom,"  said  my  host.  I 
looked  a  bit  dubious,  and  he  asked:  "  Or  would  you 
prefer  the  room  upstairs?  " 

"  Let's  see  it,"  I  suggested,  and  he  took  me  back 
to  the  kitchen,  from  which  by  a  steep  stairway  we 
climbed  to  a  long  dark  attic  above.  On  one  side 
was  a  little  room  with  two  dormer  windows  that 
looked  through  the  trees  down  to  the  murmuring 
river  below.  Here  I  brought  my  luggage  and  then 
rejoined  Tarasov  outdoors. 

Juvenale  Ivanovitch  was  very  happy  to  be  home. 
With  a  quiet  affectionate  pride  he  showed  me  the 
barn  and  the  stable,  the  granary  and  the  wood-shed 
—  four  little  log  buildings  In  a  row.  He  showed  me 
farming  implements  that  he  himself  had  made  as  a 


30  THE  VILLAGE 

boy;  and  he  spoke  of  the  time  when  living  here  he 
had  run  a  dairy  farm,  with  sixteen  cows.  Now  they 
were  gone.  Near  the  house  lay  a  big  dory,  with 
iron  sheathing  on  the  sides  to  protect  it  from  the 
river  ice  when  he  had  fished  in  the  early  spring. 
This,  he  told  me,  he  had  built  when  he  was  a  young- 
ster of  eighteen.  He  lifted  the  bow  about  a  foot  — 
a  fairly  creditable  feat,  for  it  must  have  weighed 
three  hundred  pounds.  But  he  seemed  suddenly 
much  depressed. 

"  I  am  not  so  strong  as  I  was.  I  am  getting  old," 
he  grimly  remarked.  "  Three  years  ago  when  I  was 
here  I  could  carry  that  boat  on  my  back  all  the  way 
down  to  the  river."  He  sighed  regretfully.  "  In 
those  days  I  was  in  fine  trim.  I  shall  tell  you  why. 
The  year  before  that,  I  had  not  felt  well;  and  so,  all 
at  once  in  a  single  day,  I  stopped  smoking  and  drink- 
ing, I  stopped  eating  meat,  I  gave  up  even  eggs  or 
milk.  For  an  entire  year,  my  friend,  I  lived  on 
bread  and  vegetables.  The  result  was  like  a  mira- 
cle!     The  strength  of  my  youth  had  come  again!  " 

He  went  on  to  explain  in  detail  the  wonders  of 
vegetarian  diet.  But  I  was  a  poor  listener.  In  the 
kitchen  my  hungry  eye  had  roved  about  for  signs  of 
provisions,  with  discouraging  results. 

"  Speaking  of  food,"  I  suggested,  "  I'm  not  at  all 
sure  that  with  a  sick  man  In  the  house  this  woman  will 
want  us  here  for  meals." 

"  Oh,"  said  Tarasov  vaguely,  "  we  shall  have  no 
trouble  here."     And  he  banished  the  whole  thought 


THE  VILLAGE  31 

of  food  with  one  careless  wave  of  the  hand.  I 
looked  at  him  bitterly.     What  a  host ! 

"Now  we  shall  have  a  swim!"  he  announced. 
To  this  I  readily  agreed.  We  took  soap  and  towels 
and  went  down  to  the  river;  and  from  the  big  raft 
of  logs  we  slipped  into  the  dark  soft  water.  For  a 
time  we  washed  and  swam  about.  Later,  when  we 
had  climbed  the  bluff,  we  visited  the  hut  next  door 
where  the  peasant  lived  who  worked  the  farm;  and 
there  in  the  low  kitchen  a  small  neat-looking  woman, 
with  a  strong  but  tired  face,  served  us  with  a  loaf  of 
bread  and  a  big  earthen  jar  of  milk.  While  she 
eagerly  talked  with  Tarasov,  I  kept  watching  curi- 
ously; for  to  me  she  seemed  more  German  than  Slav. 
And  in  this  I  found  that  I  was  right. 

"  She  was  born  and  raised,"  my  friend  explained, 
"  in  one  of  the  Baltic  provinces,  where  there  has  been 
a  considerable  mixing  of  Russian  and  of  Teuton 
blood.  As  for  this  woman,  I  like  her  —  but  as  a 
sign  of  the  times  she  is  bad.  For  these  Germans 
little  by  little  are  spreading  all  through  Russia. 
There  are  probably  several  millions  now,  scattered 
about  in  the  provinces.  They  intermarry  and  settle 
down.  Here  comes  her  husband,"  he  added. 
"  You  will  see  that  he  is  pure  Russian." 

The  husband  was  a  tall  lumbering  man,  with  a  full, 
heavy,  ruddy  face  and  a  thick  brown  beard  that  was 
flecked  with  gray.  He  had  been  plowing  out  on  the 
field,  and  obviously  he  was  delighted  at  this  excuse 
for  stopping  work.     His   face   was   one   enormous 


32  THE  VILLAGE 

smile  and  his  small  eyes  had  a  genial  gleam,  as  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  Tarasov  and  cried  in  a  deep 
ringing  bass : 

"  Zdrastvitch,  Juvenale  Ivanovitch !  Zdrast- 
vitch  I  "  Which  in  English  means,  "  Good  health 
to  you  I  "  He  lit  a  little  cigarette  and  settled  down 
for  a  long  Russian  talk. 

The  new  plow  that  Tarasov  had  sent  him,  he  said, 
was  now  working  splendidly.  True,  he  had  been 
able  to  plow  only  half  as  much  ground  as  Tarasov 
had  hoped;  but  this,  he  explained  with  his  genial 
smile,  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  only  one  little 
horse  on  the  farm.  The  other  horses  had  been  taken 
long  ago  for  the  army.  As  to  the  war,  he  had 
nothing  to  say.  Plainly  he  was  indifferent.  For  the 
horse  that  was  left,  which  he  owned  himself,  he  had 
paid  forty  roubles  some  years  ago.  "  Now  I  am  of- 
fered four  hundred,"  he  said,  "  but  I  will  not  sell  him. 
For  money  is  good  for  nothing,  these  days.  I  can't 
hitch  roubles  to  the  plow  —  so  I  keep  my  horse  and 
do  my  best."  Then  he  broke  the  cheerful  news  that 
he  had  sold  all  but  two  of  the  cows.  There  was 
little  or  no  manure,  and  he  wanted  Tarasov  to  buy 
him  a  ton  or  so  of  fertilizer.  We  soon  grew  tired 
of  his  talk. 

"  I  have  no  use  for  that  chap,"  said  my  friend, 
after  we  had  left  the  hut.  "  He  is  always  asking  for 
something  new  —  something  I  must  buy  at  once  or 
the  farm  will  go  to  rack  and  ruin.  He  does  noth- 
ing but  talk,   talk,   all  day   and   let  his   wife   and 


THE  VILLAGE  33 

daughters  work.  Look,  how  he  keeps  his  barn- 
yard! " 

It  was  a  stinking  wallow  of  filth.  Farming  imple- 
ments lay  in  the  mud.  By  the  pig-sty  two  slim  girls, 
about  twelve  and  fourteen  years  of  age,  in  dirty  cot- 
ton dresses,  were  feeding  slops  and  garbage  to  an 
old  yellow  sow  and  her  litter. 

"  Their  father  won't  let  them  go  to  school,"  said 
Juvenale  Ivanovitch. 

"Why  don't  you  get  rid  of  the  man?"  I  de- 
manded impatiently.  "  This  is  a  bad  beginning,  my 
friend,  of  that  practical  plan  you  were  going  to  show 
me. 

"  Oh,  this  is  nothing,"  he  replied.  "  I  have  only 
eight  desatinas  (about  20  acres)  here.  It  is  on  my 
larger  farm,  two  miles  away,  that  I  am  working  out 
my  experiment  —  and  there  I  have  as  a  partner  quite 
a  different  kind  of  chap.  You  must  not  be  discour- 
aged if  I  show  you  the  very  worst  of  our  peasants 
first.     Now  we  shall  see  something  better." 

We  went  to  another  little  farm  about  five  minutes' 
walk  down  the  river.  This  place  had  a  more  thrifty 
air.  In  fact,  there  was  painful  evidence  on  every 
side  of  constant  toil.  The  clothes  of  the  three  small 
children  had  been  patched  and  patched  again ;  the  hut 
and  tiny  barn-yard,  barn  and  stable,  were  kept  clean; 
and  there  was  a  small  vegetable  garden.  The  wife, 
a  tall,  thin,  vigorous  woman,  sold  us  ten  eggs  for  a 
rouble  and  eighty  kopecks  —  about  three  times  the 
former  price.     We  tried  to  buy  some  honey,  too;  for 


34  THE  VILLAGE 

the  husband,  a  shrewd,  bright-eyed  little  man,  had 
twenty  modern  bee-hives  in  the  field  back  of  his  hut. 
But  we  found  that  the  hives  were  empty. 

"  There  was  so  little  clover  raised  last  year,  that 
the  bees  all  starved  in  the  winter,"  he  said.  "  How 
can  the  peasants  raise  good  crops  when  they  have 
hardly  any  horses  at  all?  And  that  is  not  the  worst 
of  it.  Now  they  talk  of  dividing  up  the  land  — 
but  I  tell  you  the  thriftiest  peasants  here  will  do  lit- 
tle work  until  we  know  that  we  have  a  clear  title  to 
our  farms.  I  won't  put  a  finger  to  my  plow  if 
my  land  is  to  be  taken  away.  And  no  speechifiers 
from  Petrograd  nor  any  of  their  soldiers  will  ever 
be  able  to  make  me !  " 

"  Do  all  the  peasants  feel  like  you?  "  asked  Tar- 
asov  hopefully. 

"  No,"  was  the  gloomy  answer.  "  Most  of  them 
—  shiftless  lazy  souls  —  think  it  a  splendid  scheme 
to  divide.  They  talk  and  talk  in  the  villages  and 
there  are  a  lot  of  young  hooligans  who  raise  the 
devil  now  and  then.  They  get  together  in  big 
crowds  and  talk  and  talk  and  shoot  off  guns.  Two 
weeks  ago  a  crowd  of  them  came  rushing  up  at  mid- 
night to  the  house  of  your  neighbor,  the  Prince. 
They  were  young  peasants  and  soldiers.  They  shot 
off  their  guns  and  bellowed  like  bulls.  They  banged 
on  his  doors,  and  in  they  went,  and  made  a  search  all 
through  his  rooms.  They  had  come  to  get  some 
government  papers  that  ought  to  land  him  in  prison, 
they  said.     But  what  do  they  know  of  such  docu- 


THE  VILLAGE  35 

ments?  They  grabbed  all  his  papers  and  went 
away." 

Soon  after  this  we  started  home,  stopping  in  at 
another  hut  to  buy  a  huge  round  loaf  of  bread,  dark 
brown  and  heavy,  made  of  rye  —  called  "black 
bread,"  by  the  Russians.  This  loaf  and  the  eggs 
we  left  at  home  with  the  Finnish  woman  there.  Al- 
ready she  was  cooking  the  fish  that  we  had  bought 
on  the  river.  Supper  would  be  ready  soon.  Her 
daughter,  a  fresh,  bright-looking  girl  of  seventeen, 
had  returned  with  the  doctor  some  time  before,  and 
was  now  busily  helping  her  mother.  She  was  a 
cheery  youngster.  Their  old  master,  she  said,  was 
much  better  now.  He  had  been  very  lonely  here 
and  would  be  glad  to  have  us  stay,  for  he  had  been 
greatly  worried  at  night  ever  since  the  raid  on  the 
Prince  next  door. 

We  decided  to  go,  while  supper  was  cooking,  to 
see  the  old  Prince  and  learn  more  of  the  raid.  From 
Tarasov's  cabin  a  path  led  across  a  small  field  down 
into  a  ravine,  and  from  there  up  to  the  Prince's  land. 
His  two-story  yellow  frame  house,  weatherbeaten 
and  forlorn,  stood  on  the  bluff  overlooking  the  river, 
with  white  birches  and  firs  behind  it.  As  we  drew 
near,  we  caught  sight  of  him  standing  motionless  un- 
der the  trees,  a  gray-headed  figure  in  a  white  blouse, 
impassively  smoking  a  cigarette.  Although  he  saw 
us  coming,  he  gave  no  sign  of  welcome.  His  greet- 
ing was  wholly  indifferent;  his  voice  little  more 
than  a  murmur.     He   shook  hands  in  a  way  that 


36  THE  VILLAGE 

seemed  to  say,  "  What  does  anything  matter  now- 
adays? " 

He  was  nearly  alone,  he  told  us.  All  his  servants 
had  left  him  but  one  —  the  young  widow  of  a  soldier 
who  had  recently  been  killed  at  the  front.  She  lived 
here  with  her  three  small  children,  and  cooked  for 
the  Prince  and  looked  after  his  house.  He  asked  us 
to  come  in  for  a  while.  It  was  a  desolate  place  in- 
side. The  rooms,  with  their  stiff  ugly  old  chairs, 
tables,  sofas,  mirrors,  all  looked  empty  and  comfort- 
less, like  mere  relics  of  the  past.  The  Prince  had 
once  been  very  gay,  and  there  had  been  wild  parties 
here  of  men  and  women  from  Petrograd,  with  music 
and  dancing  all  the  night.  Mere  memories  now,  the 
ghost  of  old  days.  He  spent  his  time  reading  or 
walking  about  or  staring  down  on  the  river.  Under 
the  Old  Regime,  he  said,  he  had  had  an  official  posi- 
tion here.  That  was  why  the  peasants  had  raided 
his  home. 

"  We  have  come  to  get  your  accounts  of  our 
money!  "  they  shouted,  as  they  burst  into  the  house. 
"  If  you  are  a  thief,  by  Christ  we  will  kill  you ! " 

As  the  Prince  told  his  story,  a  slight  smile  of 
amusement  came  upon  his  wrinkled  face.  He  de- 
scribed how  they  had  scowled  and  panted  over  his 
desk,  elbowing  each  other  aside.  Soon  they  had 
gathered  his  papers  all  up  and  had  bundled  them  into 
a  burlap  bag,  which  they  had  taken  off  to  the  village. 
He  had  heard  nothing  from  them  since. 

"  And  they  are  our  government,"  he  remarked. 


THE  VILLAGE  37 

Now  we  were  out  again  under  the  trees.  He  lit 
another  cigarette  and  relapsed  into  his  indifference. 
We  left  him  there  in  the  gathering  dusk.  Nearby, 
his  housekeeper's  little  girl  sat  on  the  grass  with  her 
baby  brother.  Each  time  the  wee  solemn  boy  sat 
up,  she  would  push  him  over  again  —  heels  over 
head  —  and  the  fat  little  boy  would  fairly  explode 
with  quick  gasping  chuckles.  For  him  there  had 
been  no  revolution,  no  world  war.  He  had  had 
excitements  of  his  own,  he  had  made  great  discov- 
eries. Already  he  could  sit  up  In  the  grass !  Soon 
he  would  be  able  to  walk  —  and  would  walk  about 
for  seventy  years.  I  wondered  what  his  awakening 
mind  would  see  In  the  years  that  lay  just  ahead. 
And  the  millions  of  other  small  boys  and  girls  all 
over  Europe  —  what  would  they  see  ?  Famine,  pes- 
tilence and  death?  Or  would  their  big  brothers  in 
every  land  come  to  the  aid  of  all  such  little  people 
and  give  them  a  new  start  In  life?  ...  At  present 
he  was  exceedingly  gay.  But  his  chuckles  were  the 
only  sound  that  broke  the  stillness  of  this  yard.  The 
whole  place  was  very  funereal. 


4 

Returning  home,  In  the  living  room  we  found  that 
the  table  had  been,  laid,  but  supper  was  not  ready  yet. 
While  we  were  waiting,  my  eye  was  caught  by  a 
spinnet  In  the  corner.  Piled  high  with  books  and 
papers,  it  had  escaped  my  attention  before.     It  had 


38  THE  VILLAGE 

once  been  a  lovely  old  Instrument,  with  delicate  In- 
laid designs  —  but  now  it  was  cracked  and  broken, 
with  the  veneer  fast  peeling  off.  Some  of  the  keys 
were  missing,  and  others  gave  only  a  tinkling  sound. 

"  My  grandmother  brought  it  here,"  said  Juven- 
ale  Ivanovltch.  "  A  wonderful  woman.  Those  are 
her  books." 

And  he  pointed  to  a  narrow  bookcase,  glass  en- 
closed, which  stood  In  the  opposite  corner.  Here 
were  two  or  three  score  of  books,  In  mellow  old 
bindings.  I  noticed  that  most  of  them  were  in 
French.  There  was  a  broken  set  of  Voltaire,  and 
I  jotted  down  these  other  titles:  "  Le  Saint  Bible." 
"  La  Russle  Sous  Pierre  Le  Grand."  "  Repertoire 
des  Etranges  Complets  —  Oeuvres  de  W.  Scott." 
"  Voyages  Rellgleux  en  Orient,  par  M.  L'Abbe 
Michon."  On  another  shelf  was  a  full  set  of  Shake- 
speare, In  English,  and  some  German  magazines. 
Beside  them  were  two  small  enameled  jewel  boxes, 
both  of  which  were  empty  now.  And  below  were 
several  large  heavy  volumes  entitled  "  La  Malson 
Rustlque."     As  I  lifted  them  out,  Tarasov  said: 

"  Those  are  books  on  agriculture,  published  long 
ago  In  France.  My  grandmother  used  to  tell  me 
that  the  happiest  years  of  her  life  were  the  two  she 
spent  as  a  girl  in  Paris.  And  so,  when  she  was 
eager  to  start  a  fine  new  agriculture  here,  she  got 
her  books  and  manuals  all  from  her  beloved  France. 
She  took  the  methods  Intended  for  the  French  soil 
and  climate,  and  tried  to  Introduce  them  over  a  thou- 


THE  VILLAGE  39 

sand  miles  to  the  North.  Naturally,  her  efforts 
failed.     But  what  a  woman  —  what  a  woman  !  " 

"  Tell  me  about  her,"  I  suggested. 

"  It's  a  long  story,"  he  replied.  "  Let  us  have 
our  supper  first." 

When  the  meal  was  over,  he  took  me  out  behind 
the  garden  and  showed  me  the  tattered  relics  of 
what  had  once  been  a  huge  covered  sledge.  Only 
a  few  small  shreds  of  leather  and  blue  satin  still  hung 
upon  the  framework. 

"  This  belonged  to  her  family,"  he  said.  "  See 
how  large  it  was  —  fully  twelve  feet  long  by  eight 
feet  wide;  and  it  was  all  upholstered  inside.  There 
were  four  wide  cushioned  seats  that  became  sleep- 
ing berths  at  night;  also  a  silver  washstand,  a  nar- 
row table  for  eating  and  a  little  case  for  books,  with 
a  mirror  overhead.  So  they  traveled  in  the  old 
days.  It  was  down  in  the  south  of  Russia.  She  was 
brought  up  on  a  large  estate,  where  there  were  some 
ten  thousand  serfs  and  household  servants  by  the 
score.  She  had  French  and  German  governesses. 
When  they  traveled  up  to  Moscow  or  went  to  balls 
at  other  estates,  there  would  be  three  or  four  great 
sledges  with  eight  horses  hitched  to  each,  and  a  Cos- 
sack guard  before  and  behind  —  for  there  were  brig- 
ands in  those  times.  They  would  travel  day  and 
night.  They  went  like  the  wind  on  the  snowy  road, 
through  the  forest  and  out  over  the  steppe. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  boy,  often  on  summer  even- 
ings here  my  grandmother  would  sit  with  me  in  this 


40  THE  VILLAGE 

old  sledge,  which  was  not  so  dilapidated  then;  and 
she  would  tell  me  stories  of  the  long,  long  rides  they 
took,  the  singing,  and  the  sleigh-bells  and  the  wild 
music  of  the  horns.  She  told  of  fights  with  brigands 
that  made  my  eyes  pop  out  of  my  head.  She  told  of 
gay  parties  on  the  estate  of  her  father,  with  sixty  or 
seventy  guests  who  would  be  there  for  many  days. 
She  taught  me  nursery  rhymes  and  songs,  while  I 
worked  with  her  in  the  garden.  For  even  now  that 
she  had  come  to  such  a  humble  home  as  this,  my 
grandmother  liked  to  make  it  gay.  She  planted 
those  morning-glories  that  cover  this  end  of  the 
house;  and  over  there  in  the  garden,  far  down  in 
the  tall  grass  and  weeds  you  will  find  her  flowers 
growing  still. 

"  She  had  been  brought  up,  as  I  told  you,  with 
every  kind  of  luxury;  and  at  the  end  of  her  long 
bright  youth  came  those  years  in  Paris.  But  after 
that  her  life  was  changed.  She  was  one  of  many 
children;  all  had  to  be  provided  for.  Her  father 
had  mismanaged  things;  his  affairs  had  gone  from 
bad  to  worse,  until  most  of  his  fortune  had  drib- 
bled away.  So  when  she  came  back  from  France 
she  found  a  ruined  family;  and  when  she  married 
later  on,  her  dowry  was  very  small. 

"  She  married  a  man  in  Petrograd,  a  noted  pro- 
fessor of  surgery  in  the  Medical  University  there. 
The  marriage  was  a  great  mistake.  Within  two 
years  they  both  agreed  that  to  live  together  longer 
would  simply  spoil  the  life  of  each  one.     My  grand- 


THE  VILLAGE  41 

mother,  however,  although  without  religious  scru- 
ples, felt  that  divorce  was  in  shocking  bad  taste. 
And  so,  when  she  came  with  her  baby,  my  mother, 
out  to  live  in  this  country  place,  regularly  once  a  year 
she  went  back  to  Petrograd  to  visit  my  grandfather 
there,  in  order  to  avoid  any  scandal. 

"And  in  this  way  she  lived  her  life  —  from  her 
youth  to  the  grave.  It  was  very  hard.  Such  a 
woman  in  such  a  rough  wild  region !  For  it  was  not 
then  as  it  is  now.  On  this  spot  a  century  ago  was  a 
little  village  of  robbers,  who  watched  like  hawks  for 
the  barges  loaded  with  rich  merchandise  that  were 
bound  for  Petrograd.  They  were  a  regular  pirate 
crew.  Finally  soldiers  and  police  came  and  cleaned 
out  this  robbers'  lair.  Later  a  queer  old  splnstress 
from  Petrograd  bought  this  piece  of  land,  built  a 
small  house  and  lived  here  alone  till  the  time  of  her 
death.     Then  it  was  sold  to  my  grandmother. 

"  My  grandmother  was  far  from  practical. 
Though  she  had  hardly  any  money  at  all, 
she  bought  this  place  without  seeing  it;  and  when 
she  arrived  she  found  that  the  buildings  which 
had  been  so  nicely  described  to  her  by  the  agent 
in  Petrograd  were  largely  matters  of  fancy.  But 
grimly  she  settled  down  in  the  cabin,  and  here  she 
lived  for  thirty-five  years.  She  had  a  peasant  who 
worked  the  farm,  and  his  wife  was  her  one  servant. 
They  lived  with  rigid  economy.  She  closely  studied 
those  French  books  on  the  best  methods  of  tilling  the 
soil,  and  she  did  her  best  to  apply  them  and  make 


42  THE  VILLAGE 

the  most  of  her  small  farm.  But  she  got  barely- 
enough  to  eat.  They  hardly  ever  tasted  meat.  She 
had  still  several  trunks  and  chests  filled  with  her 
fine  Paris  clothes.  These  she  guarded  carefully, 
and  year  by  year  she  cut  them  up  to  make  garments 
for  my  mother,  who  was  no  longer  a  baby  now. 
Except  for  this  companionship,  my  grandmother 
lived  quite  alone.  After  those  bright  years  in  Paris, 
it  must  have  been  a  dreary  life.  The  winters  up 
here  are  terribly  cold.  I  picture  those  nights  alone 
in  her  cabin  —  thinking  and  thinking  of  the  past. 

"  But  she  was  such  a  true  grand  dame,  that  as 
time  went  on  she  made  a  place ;  the  peasants  all  came 
to  esteem  her.  In  the  old  days  down  in  the  South, 
her  father  had  stood  high  in  the  law.  She  had  a 
few  of  his  law  books  still.  These  she  closely  stud- 
ied. And  more  and  more  she  set  herself  to  the  task 
of  seeing  justice  done  in  disputes  that  arose  among 
peasants  here.  They  were  always  bringing  their 
quarrels  to  her.  In  time  she  became  almost  like 
a  judge. 

"  In  the  meantime,  her  husband  had  died,  and 
his  small  pension  came  to  her.  This  made  her  life 
somewhat  easier.  Often  when  she  had  saved  a  bit, 
she  would  take  her  daughter  to  Petrograd  to  visit 
friends.  On  one  such  trip,  my  mother  grew  ac- 
quainted with  my  father  who  was  an  art  student  in 
the  Fine  Arts  Academy  there.  He  was  the  son  of 
a  prosperous  peasant  in  this  neighborhood  —  who, 
ambitious  for  his  son,  had  sent  him  to  the  capital. 


THE  VILLAGE  43 

My  father  was  proud  of  his  peasant  blood,  and 
later  on  he  achieved  fame  by  painting  pictures  of  vil- 
lage life.  Long  before  that,  he  had  married  my 
mother  and  I  had  been  born.  They  brought  me 
here  In  the  summer  months.  And  from  my  old 
grandmother,  I  heard  her  stories  of  the  past. 

"  She  died  when  I  was  still  a  small  boy.  My 
father  then  pulled  her  cabin  down,  and  built  this 
larger  one  In  Its  place.  During  the  rebuilding,  an 
old  sofa  of  my  grandmother's  was  given  by  my 
mother  to  a  peasant  woman  nearby.  This  woman 
was  a  newcomer  here,  and  had  never  heard  of  my 
grandmother.  But  soon  after  she  got  the  sofa,  she 
was  taking  a  nap  upon  it  one  day,  when  she  saw  a 
'  tall  great  lady  '  come  into  the  room  very  silently 
and  frown  at  her  and  say  very  clearly: 

"  *  I  am  not  pleased  with  you  for  using  this  sofa 
which  was  mine.  I  am  not  pleased.  And  nothing 
good  will  come  to  you,  so  long  as  you  keep  it 
here.' 

"The  poor  woman  was  quite  terrified;  she  re- 
turned the  sofa  forthwith.  And  though  the  ghost 
of  my  grandmother  has  never  appeared  to  any  one 
else,  her  spirit  still  lives  in  the  minds  of  old  people, 
who  on  festival  days  in  the  churchyard  place  flowers 
on  the  '  great  lady's  '  grave. 

"  After  the  new  house  was  built,  my  father  re- 
solved to  stay  here  the  year  'round  and  lead  the  life 
of  a  farmer.  He  bought  live  stock,  plows  and 
tools  and  hired  peasant  laborers.      But  the  project 


44  THE  VILLAGE 

met  with  no  success,  for  he  grew  so  absorbed  in 
painting  the  peasants  that  he  did  not  make  them 
work.  Often  In  the  morning  he  would  stroll  out 
on  his  field;  and  finding  a  peasant  he  wished  to  paint, 
he  would  bring  him  back  to  his  studio,  and  there 
they  would  remain  all  day  —  both  of  them  perfectly 
content. 

"  Meanwhile  I  was  growing  up,  and  my  parents 
gave  me  a  good  education,  sending  me  to  Petrograd, 
where  I  specialized  in  chemistry.  But  when,  at 
twenty-three  years  of  age,  I  had  left  the  university, 
I  asked  them  to  let  me  manage  the  farm.  They 
agreed  and  I  began  at  once.  I  was  a  young  giant 
in  those  days;  I  could  break  a  horseshoe  In  one 
hand.  And  the  countless  blunders  I  made  at  first 
were  more  than  counterbalanced  by  my  eagerness  for 
the  job.  I  hired  some  peasants  and  set  them  a  pace. 
We  worked  like  bulls  —  and  within  a  year  I  had 
made  thirty  acres  of  land  provide  fodder  for  six- 
teen cattle.  In  the  meantime  I  had  begun  to  buy 
tools  and  to  study  modern  methods  adapted  to  this 
climate  and  soil.  In  the  early  summer,  while  we 
were  still  mowing  the  winter  rye  in  one  part  of  the 
field,  we  were  plowing  in  the  other  part  and  sow- 
ing It  for  barley,  potatoes  and  cucumbers.  Such 
haste  was  a  perfect  scandal.  It  made  the  peasants 
rub  their  eyes.  But  the  good  results  they  could  not 
deny.  Soon  I  was  selling  my  produce  to  the  Petro- 
grad markets;  and  at  last  I  was  able  to  show  an 
actual  profit  on  the  farm. 


THE  VILLAGE  45 

"  So  I  worked  for  three  or  four  years.  Then  I 
went  back  to  Petrograd  and  entered  the  government 
service  as  a  chemical  engineer.  Later  I  went  to 
England  and  to  Germany  and  France;  and  back 
again  in  Petrograd  I  worked  for  a  traction  company. 
During  a  period  of  ten  years,  I  came  here  only  now 
and  then;  and  under  the  shiftless  management  of 
my  big  peasant  neighbor,  again  the  farm  had  run 
to  seed.  My  parents  had  returned  to  the  city. 
When,  however,  my  father  died  in  the  fall  of  191 1, 
my  mother  and  I  brought  his  body  back  here.  Then 
she  returned  to  Petrograd,  but  I  stayed  here  alone 
for  a  year  and  a  half.  At  first  I  did  this  merely 
because  I  had  deeply  loved  my  father  and  wished 
to  be  by  myself  for  a  time.  That  winter  I  passed 
some  strange  nights  in  this  house.  My  father  was 
so  strongly,  so  vividly  before  my  eyes,  that  often 
it  was  hard  to  tell  whether  or  not  it  was  merely  a 
dream.  I  had  brought  the  small  mahogany  bed, 
which  had  belonged  to  my  grandmother,  into  my 
father's  studio.  Lying  there  I  would  talk  to  him 
as  he  stood  at  his  easel;  and  he  would  talk  back  to 
me  over  his  shoulder.  At  times  I  felt  quite  cold 
with  fear,  but  more  often  I  felt  nothing  but  a  deep 
and  quiet  content.  I  wrote  this  down  in  full  detail, 
for  in  spite  of  my  grief  my  mind  was  clear.  I  closely 
observed  each  experience  from  a  scientific  point  of 
view;  and  some  day  I  shall  give  my  records  to  a 
journal  of  psychiatry. 

"  But  now  my  passion  for  the  land  soon  roused  me 


46  THE  VILLAGE 

to  an  active  life.  All  winter  long  I  worked  like  a 
peasant,  repairing  the  house  and  cutting  wood,  get- 
ting ready  my  plows  and  other  tools.  In  the  mean- 
time I  had  come  to  see  how  hard  it  was  to  improve 
conditions  while  each  of  us  was  still  working  alone. 
And  so  I  got  the  first  germ  of  my  plan  for  cooperative 
work.  I  thought  we  must  throw  together  all  our 
separate  plots  of  land,  and  buy  in  common  the  very 
best  of  agricultural  machines.  I  worked  it  out  in 
full  detail  with  the  priest  and  the  school  teacher  — 
both  of  them  remarkable  men. 

"  The  peasants,  too,  used  to  come  to  my  house. 
They  did  not  feel  so  much  reserve  with  me  as  with 
other  landowners  —  first,  because  I  was  the  son  of 
a  peasant;  and  second,  because  I  have  in  my  breast 
something  that  makes  me  insanely  eager  to  be  friends 
with  any  man,  woman  or  child.  So  the  peasants 
came  to  me.  For  the  making  of  farming  imple- 
ments, in  my  father's  studio,  I  had  lathes  both  for 
metal  and  wood,  and  the  shavings  and  the  sawdust 
and  steel  filings  would  accumulate  and  lie  in  heaps 
upon  the  floor.  The  good  kind  God  had  sent  me 
no  wife  to  spoil  my  life  with  her  tidiness!  I  taught 
the  peasants  to  use  my  tools,  and  some  of  them  grew 
so  absorbed  that  they  would  work  nearly  half  the 
night.  Then  they  wanted  to  know  about  cattle's 
diseases,  so  I  got  books  and  we  studied  it  out.  The 
priest  used  to  join  in  these  consultations,  for  he  had 
a  passion  for  horses  and  cattle.  Slowly  we  made 
headway  here.     Often  my  peasant  neighbors  would 


THE  VILLAGE  47 

ask  me  about  my  travels  abroad.  I  would  describe 
the  farms  I  had  seen  in  Germany,  France  and  Eng- 
land —  and  also  the  cooperative  farms  in  Denmark 
and  in  Sweden, 

"  But  now  again  I  went  away —  for  my  mother, 
who  liked  the  city,  begged  me  to  come  back  to  her. 
So  I  went  to  Petrograd  and  took  employment  in  a 
bank.     And  there  I  remained  until  the  war." 


5 

His  story  was  interrupted  by  a  shower  of  rain 
which  drove  us  indoors.  We  went  into  the  studio 
and  there  he  resumed  his  narrative.  Tarasov  had 
often  talked  to  me  about  the  revolution  —  but  now 
I  asked  him  to  give  me,  as  clearly  as  he  could  re- 
member it  all,  a  connected  story  of  what  he  had  seen 
in  Petrograd  in  the  early  weeks  after  the  downfall 
of  the  Czar. 

"  First,"  he  said,  "  I  must  tell  you  a  little  about 
my  part  in  the  war.  For  it  throws  some  light  upon 
the  rest.  When  the  war  broke  out,  to  do  my  share 
and  use  my  skill  as  a  chemist,  I  obtained  work  with 
a  company  which  was  planning  munition  mills  in  the 
South.  Mine  was  laboratory  work,  a  search  for 
high  explosives;  and  in  the  third  year  of  the  war, 
we  were  on  the  verge  of  discovering  something  that 
might  have  become  a  new  force.  Our  little  group  of 
chemists  grew  terribly  interested.  We  worked  all 
day  and  often  all  night  —  and  ours  was  hard  clean 


48  THE  VILLAGE 

thinking.  We  did  not  often  feel  fatigue,  for  by 
accurate  computation  we  knew  that  If  the  damned 
stuff  exploded  too  soon,  we  would  be  blown  Into 
molecules  In  exactly  one  fifty-seven-hundredth  of  a 
second.  And  that  acted,  you  might  say,  on  the  brain 
like  a  glass  of  cognac  —  though  at  the  time  I  was 
on  a  diet  of  vegetables,  bread  and  water.  At  last 
we  had  what  we  wanted.  I  remember  very  vividly 
still  how  happy  we  were;  I  remember  one  night  when 
we  talked  till  the  morning  of  how  this  terrific  child 
of  our  brains  would  help  our  armies  at  the  front. 

"  But  for  me  this  time  was  followed  by  a  drop 
to  deep  disgust.  For  I  was  sent  to  Petrograd  to  tell 
of  our  discovery  to  the  Government  Board  of  Explo- 
sives there.  And  what  a  gang,  a  pirate  crew;  how 
different  from  the  little  group  of  chemists  I  had  left 
behind!  Here  was  a  swarm  of  profiteers,  who 
neither  thought  of  winning  the  war  nor  of  discover- 
ing anything.  In  their  shrewd  eyes  you  could  see 
how  they  schemed  to  cheat  both  us  and  the  govern- 
ment. I  broke  through  these  gray  wolves  at  last 
and  got  in  to  the  Artillery  Board  —  and  when  they 
realized  what  we  had  found,  it  was  tragic  to  see  those 
expert  men.  They  were  so  eager  to  try  it  out,  but  at 
the  same  time  almost  without  hope.  '  If  only  our 
government,'  they  said,  '  could  rid  Itself  of  these  war 
millionaires !  ' 

"  Almost  immediately  after  that  began  the  revolu- 
tion. I  shall  never  forget  the  day  that  It  started.  I 
had  called  at  the  Admiralty  on  a  certain  Mr.  K , 


THE  VILLAGE  49 

who  was  working  on  the  Navy  Board.  He  was  a 
thick-set,  middle-aged  man,  harsh  and  uncouth  in  his 
manners;  and  as  soon  as  he  learned  of  the  value  of 
our  new  discovery,  he  tried  hard  to  force  me  to  prom- 
ise that  I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  Army 
and  deal  only  with  his  Board.  For  the  Army  and 
the  Navy  were  as  jealous  as  two  great  cats.  Fi- 
nally he  told  me  to  go  and  see  his  assistant.  But 
when  I  came  out  to  the  ante-room,  I  found  it  filled 
with  officers,  and  at  once  I  saw  on  their  faces  the 
signs  of  great  excitement. 

"  '  At  last  it  has  come !  '  one  of  them  was  exclaim- 
ing.    '  What  will  be  the  result  of  it  all?  ' 

"  Just  then  an  older  officer  came  in  and  told  us 
what  he  had  seen.  He  was  coming  up  the  Lithania 
(one  of  Petrograd's  principal  streets)  in  one  of  those 
little  American  cars.  It  was  what  you  call  a  Ford. 
It  broke  down  in  front  of  the  barracks  of  one  of  our 
Guard  regiments.  While  he  sat  waiting  for  his 
chauffeur  to  fix  the  machine,  he  noticed  a  curious  agi- 
tation on  the  faces  of  the  young  soldiers  there,  who 
were  hurrying  about,  bringing  out  rifles,  cartridges 
and  several  machine  guns.  There  was  a  kind  of 
happiness  and  yet  something  solemn  and  tragic,  too, 
in  the  eyes  of  all  these  youngsters.  He  asked  them 
to  help  his  chauffeur  with  the  car  —  but  after  con- 
sulting together  a  moment,  one  of  them  came  and 
saluted  and  said: 

"  '  Your  Excellence,  to-day  we  are  starting  to  make 
the  Great  Revolution  —  and  we  shall  have  to  take 


50  THE  VILLAGE 

your  car  —  to  carry  a  machine  gun  to  use  against 
the  Czar's  police.  We  hope  you  are  a  friend  of  the 
people  and  that  you  will  not  decline.  We  will  find 
you  a  cab,  your  Excellence,  so  that  you  can  go  on 
your  way.  But  please  let  us  have  your  chauffeur  — ^ 
for  we  are  not  used  to  American  cars.' 

"He  said  this  in  a  low  respectful  tone;  and  the 
group  of  young  chaps  standing  there  all  seemed  so 
very  quiet,  and  yet  so  determined,  too,  that  the  officer 
said  he  felt  at  once  that  the  Old  Regime  was  done 
for.  For  this  was  a  regiment  of  the  Guard !  One 
of  the  soldiers  got  him  a  cab,  and  as  he  started  up  the 
street  they  were  hoisting  a  machine  gun  into  the 
seat  of  his  automobile.  A  few  moments  later  they 
passed  him,  all  of  them  smiling  and  waving  their 
hats.  But  just  ahead  the  car  broke  down;  and  now 
as  he  passed  them  in  his  cab.  It  was  the  officer's  turn 
to  smile  —  while  one  of  the  young  soldiers  cried, 

"  '  Your  Excellence,  why  did  you  give  us  this  car? 
What  a  car  for  a  great  revolution  !  ' 

"  The  officer  then  went  on  to  tell  how  he  had  seen 
many  crowds  of  armed  men,  with  women  and  chil- 
dren at  their  sides,  marching  down  the  streets  and 
singing.  I  did  not  wait  to  hear  any  more;  I  went 
out  to  see  it  for  myself. 

"  The  streets  close  by  the  Admiralty  were  as  silent 
as  the  grave,  but  very  soon  as  I  walked  along  I  heard 
a  tremendous  humming  sound,  and  when  I  came  to 
the  great  square  in  front  of  the  Winter  Palace,  I 
found  it  like  a  beehive,  black  with  swarming  thou- 


THE  VILLAGE  51 

sands  of  people  and  of  soldiers.  I  made  my  way- 
deep  into  the  crowd,  listening,  watching,  all  my 
thoughts  and  feelings  gripped  by  a  force  gigantic  — 
like  the  world !  But  a  new  world  I  It  was  like  a 
dream ! 

"  Then  suddenly  I  heard  the  word  go  'round  to 
burn  the  Palace.  At  once  I  thought  of  the  Hermi- 
tage, which  stood  so  close  to  the  Palace  that  one 
could  not  burn  without  the  other  —  the  Hermitage 
with  its  Rembrandts  and  all  its  other  treasures  of 
art.  My  father  and  I  had  often  been  there.  The 
place  had  been  like  a  holy  cathedral,  my  only  re- 
ligion as  a  child.  And  now,  as  I  stood  in  a  trance, 
something  strange  happened  inside  of  me  —  and 
what  took  place  I  cannot  recall.  I  remember  shout- 
ing to  two  men  to  hoist  me  up  on  their  shoulders. 
Then  I  began  speaking  to  the  crowd.  And  as  I  no- 
ticed that  thousands  of  eyes  were  turning  in  my  direc- 
tion, I  seemed  to  lose  all  consciousness.  Now  I  was 
speaking  down  to  them  from  somewhere  in  the 
cloudy  sky.  .  .  .  When  I  regained  my  senses  I  was 
lying  on  the  pavement.  There  was  cool  dirty  snow 
on  my  face,  and  a  soldier  on  his  knees  beside  me  was 
unbuttoning  my  shirt.  .  .  .  The  Winter  Palace  was 
not  burned.  I  do  not  mean  in  the  least  to  say  that 
the  Hermitage  was  saved  by  my  speech.  That 
doubtless  played  but  one  little  part  in  the  thoughts 
and  passions  deep  and  obscure  that  go  surging 
through  such  a  multitude.  I  was  simply  a  molecule 
in  a  storm. 


52  THE  VILLAGE 

"  From  there  I  went  down  the  Nevsky,  for  I  had 
some  urgent  business  with  a  Jew  at  the  other  end. 
I  found  the  big  wide  thoroughfare  almost  completely 
empty  —  no  people  on  the  sidewalks,  no  izvostchiks 
(cabbies),  no  trams.  My  Jewish  friend  was  highly 
excited.  *  I  tell  you,'  he  said  earnestly,  *  that  what 
is  happening  to-day  may  change  the  future  of  the 
world !  The  Old  Regime  was  ready  to  make  peace 
with  the  Kaiser  soon,  but  this  change  may  keep  the 
war  going  for  years !  '  He  knew  many  politicians, 
and  his  quick  confused  account  of  the  chaos  and 
alarm  in  those  circles  was  indeed  a  contrast  to  the 
tremendous  humming  force  of  which  I  had  just  been 
a  part.  A  big  banker  had  told  him  that  on  the  mar- 
ket all  values  were  now  breaking  fast.  I  left  him 
and  went  out  again. 

"  More  and  more  I  had  the  certainty  that  the  long 
expected  Revolution,  which  in  Russia  had  gathered 
its  forces  for  fifty  years,  was  upon  us  at  last.  I 
cannot  express  how  deep  it  felt.  The  whole  nation 
seemed  to  be  rising  here.  It  was  as  though,  as  I 
walked  along,  I  could  feel  the  people  gathering  in 
villages  by  thousands  in  every  corner  of  our  land. 

"  Suddenly,  as  I  came  'round  a  corner,  I  saw  men 
and  women  and  children  running  toward  me  in  scat- 
tering crowds.  Not  a  shout  nor  a  scream,  but  on 
they  came  and  fled  into  doorways  on  both  sides. 
In  a  moment  or  two,  behind  them  I  heard  the  rapid 
thud  of  hoofs,  and  then  over  my  head  the  bullets 
began  to  buzz  like  so  many  bees.     I  looked  around 


THE  VILLAGE  53 

for  a  refuge,  but  all  the  doors  were  either  closed 
or  the  doorways  packed  with  people.  I  ran  along 
close  to  the  walls;  and  as  the  fusillade  increased,  I 
dropped  on  my  belly.  Down  the  street  came  the 
mounted  police,  firing  on  every  side.  They  passed, 
and  I  heard  a  few  groans  close  by —  and  somewhere 
a  child  began  talking  in  a  shrill  excited  way. 

"  I  jumped  to  my  feet,  and  running  on  I  reached 
the  Nickolaivsky  Station.  It  was  being  fired  upon 
by  police  from  across  the  square,  who  had  installed 
machine  guns  in  the  windows  of  the  Great  Northern 
Hotel.  I  managed  to  get  through  the  station  and 
out  onto  the  railroad  tracks,  and  from  there  I  wan- 
dered off  through  the  poorer  residence  parts  of  the 
city.  There  was  hardly  a  street  or  a  courtyard 
where  you  could  not  hear  the  shots.  For  the  revolu- 
tionists were  hunting  down  the  Czar's  police,  who 
took  refuge  in  the  houses  and  were  driven  up,  floor 
by  floor,  into  the  attics  and  onto  the  roofs. 

"Now  I  was  near  to  the  Neva;  and  as  I  came 
to  one  of  the  bridges,  I  saw  two  young  servant 
girls  coming  across  it  with  loaves  of  bread,  skylark- 
ing along  and  making  fun  of  the  bullets  hissing  over 
our  heads.  Their  excited  laughter  struck  into  me 
with  a  chill.  A  machine  gun  opened  from  nearby, 
but  by  now  I  was  tired  of  running.  I  walked  along 
in  a  kind  of  a  daze.  I  remember  meeting  a  sailor 
boy  who  said  that  the  police  had  just  seized  the  Ad- 
miralty. As  we  came  near  to  that  building,  a  dozen 
soldiers  in   front  of  us  suddenly  dropped  on  their 


54  THE  VILLAGE 

faces.  We  did  the  same,  and  just  In  time  —  for 
the  police  in  the  Admiralty  windows  were  getting  the 
range  very  nicely.  There  was  ice  and  mud  in  the 
streets,  and  dirty  snow  piles  here  and  there. 
Through  these  we  crawled  or  wriggled  along,  pre- 
tending we  were  wounded.  So  we  went  for  nearly 
a  mile. 

"  When  I  came  at  last  to  my  mother's  apartment, 
the  servant  girl  who  opened  the  door  cried  out  when 
she  saw  me, 

"  '  Juvenale  Ivanovitch!  Never  in  all  my  life 
did  I  see  a  chimney  sweep  who  looked  like  you !  ' 

"  My  clothes  were  torn;  I  was  covered  with  mud. 
My  mother  was  glad  to  find  me  alive^  I  had  a  hot 
bath  and  got  into  clean  clothes  —  and  then  all  at 
once  with  quite  a  shock  I  remembered  that  for  five 
hours  at  least  I  had  not  smoked  a  cigarette.  More- 
over, there  were  none  at  home.  I  left  our  apart- 
ment and  hurried  downstairs.  Out  on  the  street  I 
heard  shots  again  and  saw  the  dark  shadows  of 
soldiers.  Only  a  few  street  lamps  had  been  lit,  but 
there  was  a  light  In  a  druggist's  shop.  I  went  in 
and  asked  for  cigarettes.  They  were  sold  out.  But 
in  a  tea  shop  across  the  street,  a  kindly  little  fellow 
took  pity  on  me  and  gave  me  one. 

"  On  my  way  back  home,  I  met  several  soldiers 
with  a  young  student  In  command.  He  was  light- 
ing a  cigarette.  I  said,  'What  a  beastly  business! 
One  can't  get  anything  to  smoke.'  The  boy  dropped 
his  match  and  looked  at  me;  he  smiled  in  a  strange 


THE  VILLAGE  55 

sort  of  way  and  said,  '  This  is  more  a  time,  brother, 
for  potassium  cyanide.'  The  next  instant  he  swung 
around  on  his  heel,  and  up  went  his  Browning —  for 
out  of  the  darkness  came  a  small  crowd.  I  could 
see  the  shine  of  their  bayonets.  A  voice  called,  '  Are 
you  for  the  Czar  or  against  him?'  There  was  a 
moment's  silence  then,  and  I  was  rigid  as  a  post. 
In  the  eyes  of  the  boy  beside  me  I  could  read  the 
question:  'Are  they  the  Czar's  provocateurs  or 
are  they  real  revolutionists?'  He  called  sharply 
back  to  them,  '  We  are  all  right,  brothers  —  come 
on!' 

"  The  two  groups  joined  and  marched  away.  As 
I  went  home,  I  heard  more  shots  and  people  run- 
ning. I  heard  distant  cheering,  too.  At  home  I 
found  that  the  outer  door  to  the  building  had  been 
locked  and  barred.  I  pounded  on  it,  and  at  last  a 
voice  from  inside  asked,  'Who  is  there?'  I  gave 
my  name,  and  the  voice  then  said,  '  Give  the  number 
of  your  apartment.'  I  did,  and  the  porter  let  me 
in. 

"  All  night  I  heard  shooting  In  the  streets.  I  lay 
In  my  bed  but  I  could  not  sleep.  The  words  of 
Pushkin  came  to  my  mind:  '  Russia  can  never  have 
revolution.  Russia  can  have  only  riot  —  merciless, 
bloody  and  senseless.'  I  did  not  dare  to  hope  for 
an  end  of  all  the  dissipation,  intrigue,  the  stealing 
and  cheating  of  war  profiteers,  the  German  cabal 
In  the  Court  of  our  Czar,  the  tyranny  of  the  Old 
Regime,  the  dark  ignorance  of  the  people.     As  I 


56  THE  VILLAGE 

listened  to  the  shots  that  night,  I  thought  that  in 
mobs  and  violence  the  slowly  growing  vision  of  over 
half  a  century  would  all  go  up  in  a  smoky  cloud. 
In  the  room  next  to  mine,  my  old  mother  had  lighted 
the  little  lamps  in  front  of  both  her  ikons,  and  all 
night  I  could  hear  her  on  her  knees,  praying, 

"  '  O  God  —  O  Christ,  our  dearest  brother  — 
help  our  people  —  help  them!  Save  them  from 
misery,  grant  them  success !  There  has  been  so  much 
suffering  in  our  land !  ' 

"  So  she  prayed  all  through  the  night.  Toward 
morning  I  had  dropped  asleep;  and  when  she  came 
to  awaken  me,  there  was  a  shining  look  in  her  eyes 
like  that  of  an  eager  happy  young  girl. 

"  '  Oh,  Juvenale,  my  dearest,  I  must  go  and  see 
all  they  are  doing !  '  she  said.  '  We  must  be  careful, 
of  course,  how  we  go;  but  I  feel  so  sure  that  the 
soldiers  are  good  kind  lads  and  will  do  us  no  harm.' 

"  I  told  her  she  must  not  go  out,  for  I  could  still 
hear  shooting.  But  then  with  a  guilty  look  she  ex- 
plained that  she  had  already  been  to  the  market  and 
had  talked  with  the  people  there. 

"  '  They  were  all  so  happy,'  she  said,  '  in  a  good 
sweet  way,  as  though  each  had  a  solemn  light  in  his 
soul,  as  people  have  during  Easter  prayer.  Every- 
body looked  like  that  —  people  of  any  class,  rich 
or  poor.  Absolute  strangers  met  each  other  and 
suddenly  talked  like  old  friends.  Never  in  all  my 
life  did  I  dream  there  could  be  such  friendliness  in 


THE  VILLAGE  57 

the  world!'  And  as  she  spoke,  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"  I  went  out  and  tried  to  get  news.  I  asked  for 
newspapers,  but  people  laughed.  *  What  a  man,' 
they  cried,  '  not  to  realize  that  there  can  be  no 
papers  now!  '  The  streets  were  crowded  with  peo- 
ple. They  looked  as  they  do  at  Easter  time.  I 
heard  a  young  girl  say  gayly  to  another  as  they 
hurried  along,  'Easter  is  very  early  this  yearl' 
And  others  as  they  passed  me  were  singing  softly, 
*  Christ  is  Risen.'  Nearly  all  were  smiling  like 
children  who  are  too  happy  to  speak  aloud.  And 
I  thought,  '  Something  really  great  has  come.  Now 
a  new  force  is  in  the  world.  Now  the  Germans 
will  see  what  we  can  do,  when  all  their  spies  and  their 
intrigues  are  swept  out  of  Petrograd!  ' 

"  I  heard  workingmen  say,  '  This  is  no  time  for  us 
to  demand  higher  wages.  Now  we  will  work  —  be- 
cause we  are  free.  And  until  the  new  Russia  is  safe, 
all  the  wages  we  will  ask  is  enough  to  feed  our  chil- 
dren.' I  went  into  a  milk  shop,  and  found  a  strange 
new  order  there —  for  the  customers,  rich  and  poor, 
were  going  themselves  to  the  milk  cans,  pouring  out 
what  they  needed  and  putting  down  their  money  on 
the  counter,  careful  to  leave  a  fair  amount.  I  grew 
curious  and  watched  them  close,  but  not  one  person 
failed  to  pay. 

"  On  the  streets  every  doorway  was  crowded  with 
men  and  women  and  children  watching  the  army 


58  THE  VILLAGE 

trucks  go  by.  Each  truck  was  filled  with  soldiers. 
All  the  private  automobiles  had  also  been  com- 
mandeered, and  were  filled  not  only  with  soldiers 
but  with  armed  students  and  workingmen.  Most  of 
these  fellows,  who  were  mere  boys,  had  the  most 
solemn  looks  in  their  eyes.  When  they  passed,  all 
the  people  would  wave  and  cheer,  and  would  ex- 
claim with  tears  on  their  faces,  '  They  are  ours  1 
The  army  is  ours  at  last ! '  It  was  strange  to  see 
no  police  about.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  the  people 
all  so  obliging,  all  so  kind.  The  worst  looking 
specimen  of  a  man  would  step  off  the  path  into  the 
wet  snow  to  make  room  for  a  woman  or  a  child. 
I  felt  a  rising  happiness.  I  heard  a  band  playing 
the  Marseillaise,  I  saw  red  flags,  I  saw  women 
crying  just  for  joy,  and  I  noticed  now  that  most  of 
the  men  wore  little  red  ribbons  on  their  coats. 

"  Here  and  there  on  the  corners  were  speakers 
who  told  us  how  to  organize.  They  acted  in  place 
of  the  newspapers  now;  they  told  us  what  was  be- 
ing done  and  called  on  every  one  to  aid.  They 
were  forming  militia  pohce  to  keep  order,  and  or- 
ganizing the  food  supplies,  finding  where  food  was 
needed  most  and  how  it  should  be  distributed  to 
every  quarter  of  the  town.  They  formed  commit- 
tees in  each  house,  and  a  larger  committee  for  each 
block;  and  these  committees  ascertained  the  needs  of 
every  family.  Every  one  was  trying  to  help.  Real 
work  and  a  boundless  bright  good  will  flowed  like 
waves  from  all  the  streets  up  into  every  room  in  the 


THE  VILLAGE  59 

town.  It  was  one  of  those  vast  miracles  that  come 
to  a  nation  only  at  moments. 

"  If  only  such  a  mighty  force  could  be  guided  right, 
I  thought,  and  spread  all  over  Russia,  out  to  every 
town  and  village.  Now  was  a  time  for  thinking  of 
larger  things  than  food  for  ourselves.  And  be- 
cause for  so  many  years  I  had  been  absorbed  in  the 
peasants,  searching  for  some  way  to  settle  the  great- 
est of  all  Russian  problems  —  how  the  land  could 
be  made  to  yield  better  lives  to  the  people  —  my 
mind  came  back  to  this  question  now.  This  was  like 
a  tremendous  rock,  sharp  and  ugly,  underneath  all 
these  smiles  and  happy  songs.  It  must  be  clearly 
seen  at  once.  It  must  be  answered  with  a  plan  —  or 
soon  It  would  rise  slowly  up  and  split  the  whole 
revolution  apart. 

"  So  I  called  on  a  friend,  an  engineer,  and  asked 
If  he  thought  It  was  possible  to  tell  the  new  gov- 
ernment my  plan.  He  answered,  '  Now  any  new 
idea  will  be  gladly  welcomed,  brother.  To-day  you 
can  work  any  miracle  In  Russia  —  for  I  tell  you  our 
country  has  been  born  anew!  '  He  advised  me  to 
put  It  In  writing  first.  I  went  home,  and  all  that 
day  and  night  I  drew  up  my  plan  for  land  reform. 
The  next  day  I  called  upon  the  new  Minister  of 
Agriculture,  who  had  just  been  appointed  In  the 
Provisional  Government.  He  had  a  fine  strong, 
Intelligent  face;  he  was  a  university  man  well  known 
for  his  knowledge  of  farming.  He  said  that  he 
would  consider  my  plan. 


6o  THE  VILLAGE 

"  '  But  remember,'  he  told  me  with  a  smile,  '  that 
we  cannot  do  everything  all  at  once.  For  the  city  is 
full  of  men  like  you,  in  their  rooms  day  and  night, 
each  drawing  a  plan  for  Russia.'  Anxiety  came  into 
his  eyes.  '  I  fear  it  will  be  hard,'  he  said.  '  For 
pohtics  will  soon  come  in.  There  are  so  many  Rus- 
;$ians  who  have  been  accustomed  to  attack  the  gov- 
ernment. This  Hfe-long  habit  will  not  change,  and 
soon  they  will  be  attacking  us.  They  will  be  im- 
patient, they  will  not  wait,  they  will  shout  to  us,  "  Do 
something!  Do  something — for  the  love  of 
Christ!  "  But  when  we  ask  them  what  to  do,  we 
shall  find  them  all  impractical.  They  have  been 
negative  all  their  hves,  and  they  cannot  be  positive 
even  now.  They  are  not  builders  —  only  planners 
—  each  with  his  theory  or  his  plan,  and  holding  to 
it  hke  grim  death.' 

"  I  went  away  anxious  and  depressed,  for  I  feared 
the  Minister  was  right,  and  that  this  ecstatic  mood 
of  the  people  would  soon  be  broken  in  quarrels,  with- 
out any  practical  good  accomplished.  Now  was  the 
time  without  delay  to  do  real  work,  get  it  started  at 
once  I 

"  My  thoughts  kept  centering  on  the  soil.  Surely 
the  peasants  must  have  more  land,  but  it  would  be 
a  crime  to  the  nation  to  give  them  soil  they  could 
not  till  —  for  then  it  would  lie  idle,  crops  would 
fail  and  famine  set  in.  They  must  have  better  plows 
and  tools,  and  tractors  to  replace  the  horses  which 
had  been  taken  by  the  war.     To  give  them  such 


THE  VILLAGE  6i 

machinery,  and  teach  them  how  better  to  till  the 
soil,  it  was  my  purpose  to  make  use  of  the  coopera- 
tive societies  that  exist  by  tens  of  thousands  in  our 
Russian  villages.  They  are  groups  for  purchasing 
only.  I  wanted  them  for  production,  too.  Not 
only  should  they  buy  machines;  they  should  also 
throw  together  their  land,  farm  it  all  together  in  a 
modern  scientific  way  under  expert  guidance,  and 
then  divide  the  produce  in  shares  according  to  what 
each  one  had  put  in.  To  stimulate  this,  I  wished 
the  authorities  to  proclaim  that  they  would  sell  plows 
and  tractors  only  to  such  groups  as  these,  and  that 
only  to  such  peasants  would  the  government  give 
more  land. 

"  Of  course,  to  get  all  this  machinery,  would  in- 
volve a  vast  expense ;  but  I  felt  we  could  get  it  from 
abroad  —  most  of  it  from  America.  Moreover, 
many  munitions  plants  in  Russia  might  be  adapted 
to  turn  out  plows  and  tractors.  But  who  should 
teach  the  peasants  how  to  use  these  new  machines? 
That,  too,  was  included  in  my  plan.  I  wanted  the 
new  government  to  seize  the  opportunity,  while  all 
the  people  in  the  towns  were  in  this  exalted  state, 
to  enlist  tens  of  thousands  of  workingmen  of  the 
more  intelligent  kind,  who  should  not  only  make  the 
machines  but  follow  them  to  the  villages  and  show 
the  peasants  how  they  were  worked. 

"  In  the  dreams  I  had  in  those  days,  I  saw  great 
caterpillar  plows,  crawling,  crawling  everywhere 
through  the  meadows  and  waste  lands  of  Russia, 


62  THE  VILLAGE 

crushing  down  small  trees  and  bushes,  turning  up 
black  furrows  of  earth.  Food  in  plenty  for  every 
man !  And  that  was  my  revolution  1  I  saw  the 
peasants  banding  together  in  cooperative  groups 
that  should  be  like  a  million  corner-stones  on  which 
a  new  nation  was  to  rise.  And  my  plan  was  prac- 
tical! I  saw  the  tractor  forcing  them  to  work  to- 
gether instead  of  apart,  forcing  the  lazy  peasants  to 
keep  up  with  the  pace  of  the  others  —  for  the  tractor 
would  not  wait.  It  would  force  each  man  to  do  his 
share,  and  there  could  be  no  shirking.  The  thing 
would  work  because  it  must ! 

"  I  say  my  plan  was  practical !  I  talked  to  the 
peasants  by  hundreds,  who  now  began  to  pour  into 
the  city  to  take  part  in  the  revolution;  and  from  them, 
without  an  exception,  I  got  warm  approval  for  my 
scheme.  But  the  new  political  leaders  were  by  no 
means  so  favorable.  Again  and  again  they  put 
me  off;  they  had  no  time  for  such  real  things.  They 
kept  quoting  books  to  me.  One  of  them  smiled  in 
a  lofty  way  and  said,  '  Your  scheme  is  old.  It  was 
tried  long  ago  by  the  Brook  Farm  group  in  America. 
And  it  failed,  brother,  it  failed.'  The  fool! 
What  did  that  group  of  American  writers  know  about 
caterpillar  plows?  But  I  could  not  convince  him. 
Another  leader,  a  ponderous  chap,  carefully  thought 
it  over  and  said,  '  Tractors  give  no  manure,  my 
friend  —  and  without  manure  what  good  is  a  farm?  ' 

"  It  was  tragic  in  Petrograd,  the  lack  of  organ- 
izing force  —  or  rather,  the  way  such  force  was 


THE  VILLAGE  63 

spoiled  and  hindered  by  the  theoreticians  scattered 
about  all  over  the  town.  In  our  apartment  build- 
ing, where  there  were  thirty-four  families,  I  said, 
'  Let  us  stop  sending  thirty-four  servant  girls  out 
each  day  to  the  bread  lines.  Let  us  combine  and 
send  two  or  three  to  get  the  bread  for  all  of  us.' 
But  one  tall  solemn  fellow  replied,  '  In  this  time  of 
our  new-found  liberty,  each  should  be  free  to  follow 
his  taste.  Some  like  one  bread  shop  more  than  an- 
other.' And  to  defend  such  liberty,  he  went  about 
the  building,  talking  against  my  little  idea,  until  the 
people  turned  it  down.  Then  I  made  another  sug- 
gestion. We  were  afraid  robbers  might  break  in, 
for  we  knew  that  many  jails  had  been  opened. 
'  Let's  organize  our  defense,'  I  proposed.  '  Let  all 
the  men  in  the  building  take  turns  in  standing  guard 
below.'  But  the  Solemn  One  argued  against  this, 
too,  as  a  sacrilege  to  the  revolution.  '  Why  should 
we  guard  our  belongings,'  he  asked,  '  when  Russia  is 
one  great  brotherhood  now?  Any  man  can  have  my 
property.'  It  happened  that  the  very  next  night  a 
sneak-thief  got  up  to  the  attic  and  stole  a  shirt  which 
was  hanging  to  dry.  And  it  belonged  to  the  Solemn 
One.  When  he  heard  of  his  loss,  he  said  pompously, 
'  Plainly  some  brother  is  more  in  need  of  clean  linen 
than  I.'      I  looked  at  him  and  doubted  it. 

"  So  went  the  revolution.  If  you  in  America  ever 
feel  that  your  practical  ways  are  a  curse  to  your 
country  and  should  be  destructed,  all  that  you  will 
need  to  do  is  to  send  some  ships  to  Russia,  fill  them 


64  THE  VILLAGE 

up  with  our  theoreticians  and  then  let  the  ships  set 
sail  for  your  shores !  But  while  you  are  swallowing 
such  human  pills,  for  the  love  of  God  load  those 
same  ships  down  with  your  practical  men  —  the  hon- 
est ones  —  and  send  them  over  here  to  us.  And 
whatever  our  theoreticians  may  say  against  your 
*  bourgeois  Yankee  land,'  be  sure  that  the  mass  of 
us  Russians  will  welcome  such  Americans! 

"  As  you  go  about  in  Russia  now,  you  will  find 
countless  men  like  me  who  are  bitter,  terribly  bitter, 
against  the  whole  new  government.  We  are  bit- 
ter because  of  the  chance  that  was  lost.  We  are 
bitter  because  of  the  happiness,  the  immense  and 
amazing  happiness,  of  those  first  weeks  of  the  revo- 
lution. Whatever  comes  of  it  after  this,  every  one 
in  the  world  should  be  plainly  told  of  what  took 
place  in  those  days  and  nights.  For  it  was  a  daz- 
zling revelation  of  the  deep,  deep  powers  for  brother- 
hood and  friendliness  that  lie  buried  in  mankind. 
I  was  no  dreamer;  I  was  a  chemist,  a  scientist  used 
to  dealing  with  facts.  All  my  life  I  had  smiled  at  so- 
cial dreams  as  nothing  but  Utopias.  But  in  those 
days  I  was  wholly  changed,  for  I  could  feel  beneath 
my  feet  this  brotherhood  like  solid  ground.  There 
is  no  end  to  what  men  can  do  —  for  there  is  no  limit 
to  their  good  will,  if  only  they  can  be  shown  the 
way. 

"  But  it  was  not  shown  in  Petrograd.  The  real 
things  were  left  undone.  The  army  was  not  gripped 
in  time.     Still  worse,  by  foolish  orders  abolishing 


THE  VILLAGE  65 

'  le  peine  de  mort '  and  bidding  ignorant  soldiers 
to  elect  their  officers,  twelve  million  armed  men, 
mostly  young  peasants,  instantly  became  a  horde  — 
a  mob  that  cried  for  peace  and  land.  And  the  gov- 
ernment gave  them  neither  one.  To  give  both  was 
not  necessary.  If  by  deeds  the  government  had  con- 
vinced them  that  it  meant  to  give  them  land,  I  be- 
lieve these  peasants  would  have  said,  '  Now  at  last 
we  have  something  real.  For  this  we  must  fight 
against  Berlin,  or  the  Kaiser  will  try  to  grab  what  is 
ours.'  But  the  government  did  nothing  but  talk. 
And  so  the  sharp  ugly  rock  from  below,  which  I 
who  am  a  peasant's  son  had  felt  at  the  very  start, 
began  to  appear  rising  slowly  up  through  all  the 
empty  speeches.  Peasants  by  hundreds,  then  by 
thousands,  came  pouring  into  Petrograd  —  old  peas- 
ants from  the  villages,  young  peasants  from  the 
army  —  all  insisting,  '  Give  us  land!  '  And  on  this 
the  government  split  apart. 

"  For  the  bourgeois  leaders  stood  by  the  land- 
owners; the  socialists,  by  the  peasants.  The  Soviet 
soon  seized  control.  Now  all  was  quarrels,  class 
against  class,  and  bitterness  and  cries  for  revenge. 
One  day  I  went  to  the  Tauride  Palace,  where  at 
that  time  the  big  Soviet  (the  Council  of  Soldiers 
and  Workmen)  was  meeting.  One  regiment  after 
another  came  marching  up  to  the  building',  and 
stopped  and  swore  allegiance.  There  were  red  flags 
and  banners.  There  was  a  tremendous  multitude 
reaching  as  far  as  you  could  see.      From  a  distance 


66  THE  VILLAGE 

they  seemed  like  one  great  force;  but  when  you  drew 
close  and  mingled  among  them,  you  saw  the  angry 
passions  in  the  individual  eyes.  Some  soldiers  had 
brought  there  under  arrest  an  old  official  of  the  Czar, 
They  were  beating  him  on  the  back  with  their  guns, 
and  calling  him  a  slave  and  a  spy.  I  shall  never 
forget  his  look  of  terror,  as  his  gray  head  bobbed 
down  at  each  blow.  The  people  all  around  us 
looked  at  him  with  such  hatred  it  gave  me  a  sinking 
fear.  What  a  change  from  that  first  week!  And 
what  was  the  cause?  Uncertainty.  Nothing  prac- 
tical had  been  done,  and  so  had  come  chaos  and 
distrust.  I  went  into  the  old  Palace  and  found  it 
packed  with  people.  The  halls  were  filled  with 
dirt  and  refuse.  They  had  been  crowded  day  and 
night,  and  looked  as  though  they  had  been  invaded 
by  uncouth  barbaric  hordes.  I  began  to  lose  faith 
In  the  revolution. 

"  On  another  day  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  Min- 
ister of  Railroads,  to  talk  to  him  about  my  plan. 
On  the  street  my  cab  was  stopped  by  crowds  of 
people  marching,  waving  banners,  shouting,  '  Death 
to  all  servants  of  the  Czar!  Let  the  government 
hang  them  all !  Down  with  the  rich  capitalists ! 
Give  the  factories  and  the  mills  to  the  workers,  and 
to  the  peasants  give  the  land !  '  They  were  singing 
the  Marseillaise,  these  dirty,  tired  men  and  women  — 
singing  it  in  an  angry  way  with  harsh  discord  of 
voices.     Shouts  kept  rising  from  the  throng.     And 


THE  VILLAGE  67 

I  blamed  the  politicians  for  this !  At  a  time  when 
Russia  had  the  chance  to  realize  that  great  freedom 
for  which  the  nation  had  been  groping  blindly  for 
some  fifty  years,  what  a  shame  it  was  for  the  leaders 
to  rouse  such  angry  passions! 

"  I  came  to  the  home  of  the  Minister.  He  was 
out,  but  I  saw  his  wife  and  gave  her  all  the  blue 
prints  and  memoranda  of  my  plan.  I  wished  to 
make  use  of  the  thousands  of  locomotives  now  out 
of  repair,  to  adapt  them  for  what  we  farmers 
call  '  double  engine  steam  plowing '  on  the  land. 
From  there  I  went  to  my  former  friend,  the  Minister 
of  Agriculture.  But  again  he  put  me  off.  The 
government,  he  said,  would  consider  my  scheme  very 
carefully;  but  first  they  must  get  the  political  or- 
ganization all  complete.  I  warned  him  of  the  need 
of  haste. 

"  '  The  peasants,'  I  cried,  '  are  demanding  all  the 
land  of  the  private  estates.  And  this  will  split  all 
Russia  apart  into  owners  and  peasants  —  it  means 
civil  war !  '     I  urged  my  plan  as  a  compromise. 

"  So  it  was  day  after  day.  I  went  from  one  Min- 
istry to  another.  Everywhere  my  efforts  failed. 
But  if  the  leaders  in  the  towns  were  deaf  to  any  sen- 
sible scheme,  it  was  not  so  with  the  peasants  them- 
selves. In  that  fever  of  talk  in  Petrograd,  I  re- 
ceived a  message  one  day  in  May  from  the  village 
here.  And  it  came  like  a  fresh  wind  of  hope.  A 
peasant  in  this  neighborhood,  who  all  his  life  had 


68  THE  VILLAGE 

worked  and  saved  until  now  he  had  as  much  land  as 
I,  wrote  to  me  on  behalf  of  himself  and  two  other 
peasants. 

"  '  Barin,'  he  wrote,  '  you  were  quite  a  prophet. 
Last  summer  you  said  we  must  throw  together  all  our 
lands  and  property,  and  buy  the  best  machinery  and 
work  the  land  together  on  shares.  Now  the  time 
has  come  to  do  it,  for  the  revolution  is  here.  In 
Petrograd  they  only  talk;  here  we  want  to  see  some- 
thing done.  So  we  three  and  our  sons  had  a  meet- 
ing, and  we  decided  the  thing  must  be  done  in  such 
a  way  that  no  one  can  shirk  his  share  of  the  labor. 
Besides,  it  is  hard  to  figure  what  share  of  the  profits 
each  shall  have.     Please  come  and  help  us.' 

"  So  I  came  back  to  the  village  and  met  these 
shrewd  honest  neighbors  of  mine.  And  what  a 
relief  from  Petrograd !  Real  work,  real  life !  We 
figured  for  days  —  everything  cautious  —  feeling 
our  way.  The  peasant  must  see  every  step.  By 
the  amount  of  land  and  the  number  of  horses,  the 
number  of  plows,  the  amount  of  manure,  which  each 
put  in,  we  tried  to  reckon  out  what  should  be  his 
share  of  the  proceeds.  No  visionary  brotherhood 
here,  but  good  sound  brotherhood  all  the  same,  for 
the  mutual  benefit  of  all.  We  also  had  to  figure 
out  the  proportion  of  labor  done  by  each.  One  of 
the  peasants  had  a  son  whose  left  arm  had  been  lost 
in  the  war;  another  had  no  sons  at  all,  but  his 
daughter  helped  him  In  the  field;  while  the  third, 
who  had  two  sons  at  the  front,  had  still  another,  a 


THE  VILLAGE  69 

lad  of  sixteen.  Now  whose  labor  was  worth  the 
most  —  the  boy  of  sixteen,  the  grown  daughter  or 
the  man  who  had  lost  one  arm? 

"  Before  you  Americans  get  too  angry  with  Russia 
for  not  doing  our  share,  you  should  ask  yourselves 
first,  '  Has  any  American  village  been  stripped  so 
terribly  bare  of  its  sons?  '  And  before  you  decide 
we  are  nothing  but  dreamers,  you  should  come  to 
our  villages  and  see  how  shrewd  and  sensible  many 
Russian  peasants  are.  I  do  not  say  they  are  all  like 
that.  There  are  lazy  shiftless  peasants,  like  the 
one  that  I  showed  you  to-day;  and  there  is  a  dense 
awful  ignorance  and  poverty  throughout  the  land; 
everywhere  there  is  need  of  good  schools.  But  in 
every  village  you  will  find  men  like  my  three  part- 
ners—  and  on  them  the  hope  of  Russia  hangs.  If 
we  throw  our  land  together,  buy  modern  plows  and 
tractors,  seeds,  and  use  the  best  methods  on  the  soil, 
the  neighbors  will  watch  and  will  follow  our  lead 
just  so  soon  as  they  can  see  an  actual  profit  from 
our  work. 

*'  For  the  peasants  are  cautious,  mere  words  won't 
do.  Mere  words,  it  is  true,  can  sometimes  make 
them  rise  in  fury  and  riot  and  burn.  But  in  their 
hard  slow  daily  lives,  you  must  prove  every  new 
thing  to  them  first.  This  we  shall  do,  and  then  we 
shall  help  them  to  organize  other  groups  like  ours, 

*'  But  it  cannot  be  done  at  once.  As  I  told  you, 
with  my  three  partners  I  carefully  figured  for  many 
days.     Then  I  went  back  to   Pctrograd  to  try  to 


70  THE  VILLAGE 

raise  a  small  fund  for  our  work,  and  buy  machines. 
I  had  no  success.  Later,  the  bank  where  I  was 
employed  shifted  me  to  their  Moscow  branch.  And 
meanwhile  my  partners  decided  to  wait  until  my 
return.  One  of  them,  the  poorest  one,  is  the  little 
chap  I  showed  you  to-day,  the  fellow  with  the  bee- 
hives. The  second  is  an  old  school-teacher  here, 
like  me  the  son  of  a  peasant.  The  third  is  running 
my  larger  farm.  We  shall  go  and  talk  with  him 
some  day.  Later  we  shall  talk  with  the  teacher. 
I  want  you  to  hear  and  see  for  yourself." 


Tarasov  had  talked  on  and  on  till  now  it  was  very 
late  at  night.  Several  times  he  had  stopped  short, 
for  there  had  been  shots  from  the  river;  and  re- 
membering the  raid  on  the  old  Prince  two  weeks 
before,  he  had  taken  his  rifle  down  from  the  wall, 
and  had  then  gone  on  with  his  narrative.  Now  we 
heard  quite  a  fusillade,  and  shouts  and  distant  peals 
of  laughter,  angry  cries. 

"  It's  the  hooligans  down  on  the  river,"  he  said. 
"  I  think  it  means  nothing  —  but  in  case  it  should, 
I  shall  let  you  have  my  Browning,  while  I  keep  the 
rifle  downstairs." 

"  No,  thanks,"  I  replied.  In  various  little  mix- 
ups,  I  have  learned  it  is  better  to  be  unarmed.  I 
was  now  very  tired  and  drowsy.  I  climbed  to  my 
small  attic  room,  threw  off  my  clothes  and  got  into 
bed.     Through  the  open  window  I  could  hear  boats 


THE  VILLAGE  71 

passing  below,  with  voices  singing,  laughing,  talking. 
I  heard  an  accordion  playing  a  gay  little  air,  and  the 
barking  of  dogs,  and  still  a  few  shots  now  and  then. 
I  was  nearly  asleep  when  suddenly,  from  the  river 
just  beneath  my  window,  came  a  deep  mellow  bel- 
lowing voice.  The  cry  was  taken  up  at  once  from 
across  the  river,  then  farther  down,  and  I  heard  it 
caught  up  again  and  again  and  repeated  far  off  in 
the  distance.  Silence  for  perhaps  ten  minutes. 
Then  the  same  bellowing  voice  again,  and  again  the 
answering  calls. 

"What's  he  trying  to  do?"  I  asked,  with  the 
peevish  irritation  of  a  man  half  dead  for  sleep. 
"  Get  together  the  crowd  for  another  raid?  " 
Again  the  bellow.  "  Damn  him,  why  can't  we  all 
go  to  sleep  to-night?  " 

Then  with  a  little  rush  of  relief  I  remembered 
what  Tarasov  had  told  me  in  his  descriptions  of  river 
life.  The  man  below  was  a  watchman,  guarding 
the  logs  on  the  river  bank;  and  as  had  been  done 
for  centuries,  so  now  at  intervals  all  through  the 
night  he  would  call  to  the  watchman  across  the  river, 
who  in  turn  would  call  to  the  man  on  this  side  a 
mile  farther  down.  So  the  voices  would  zig-zag 
back  and  forth,  and  travel  off  into  the  distance. 

A  queer  old  custom.  I  remembered  Chinese 
cities  where  I  had  heard  such  watchmen's  calls. 
What  a  strange  country  Russia  was,  midway  be- 
tween the  East  and  the  West.  Tarasov  could  talk 
all  he  liked  about  his  shrewd  practical  peasants  and 


72  THE  VILLAGE 

his   sensible   little   plan.     They  were   deeper   than 
that,  these  Russians,  mysterious  as  the  Far  East. 
On  the  other  hand,  how  human  they  were  I     Thank 
God,  I  was  right  in  the  heart  of  them  now. 
It  was  good  to  be  in  the  country. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  days  and  nights  that  followed  were  spent 
tramping  about  the  countryside  and  visiting 
the  huts  of  peasants  in  the  little  hamlets  scattered 
through  the  neighborhood,  often  less  than  a  mile 
apart.  After  an  early  breakfast,  the  Finnish  cook 
would  ask  us  at  what  time  we  wanted  lunch.  "  Oh, 
about  four  or  five  o'clock,"  Tarasov  would  inform 
her.  But  as  a  rule  we  would  not  return  until  very 
late  in  the  evening.  After  a  few  such  experiences, 
the  eyes  of  the  Finnish  woman  grew  grim;  and  she 
gave  up  preparing  meals  only  to  have  them  insulted. 
Her  daughter  was  friendly  to  us  still.  She  would 
serve  our  breakfast  at  seven  o'clock,  and  when  she 
went  to  bed  at  night  she  would  leave  the  samovar 
boiling,  so  that  we  could  make  tea  if  we  liked. 

But  mother  and  daughter  had  all  they  could  do 
to  look  after  the  house  and  nurse  their  old  master, 
who  was  slow  in  recovering.  One  of  them  sat  up 
with  him  every  night,  for  he  was  afraid  to  be  left 
alone;  and  sometimes  I  would  see  the  young  girl 
reading  to  him  in  the  garden.  A  heavy  feeble  fig- 
ure, he  sat  there  wrapped  in  an  old  green  rug,  with 


74  THE  VILLAGE 

a  brown  silk  cap  upon  his  head.  Like  his  neighbor, 
the  Prince  next  door,  he  had  been  wrecked  by  the 
revolution.  His  factory  in  Petrograd  had  been 
seized  by  his  workingmen,  who  were  now  trying  to 
run  it  themselves.  The  winter  was  not  far  ahead. 
What  would  become  of  this  old  man?  He  did  not 
seem  to  care  very  much,  nor  did  he  want  to  talk  to 
us.     He  merely  repeated  two  or  three  times, 

"  It  is  good  to  have  you  in  the  house.  It  is  good 
to  hear  your  steps  at  night." 

But  for  the  most  part  he  kept  to  his  room.  More- 
over, he  was  but  a  tenant  here.  And  as  Tarasov 
filled  in  for  me  the  warm  memories  of  this  home  of 
his  boyhood,  his  grandmother,  his  parents  and 
friends,  these  figures  emerging  from  the  past  would 
crowd  out  the  present  tragedy. 

Day  by  day  the  big  log  cabin,  with  the  giant  fir 
tree  behind  it,  the  maples,  little  pines  and  birches 
reaching  down  to  the  river-side,  assumed  a  familiar 
look  to  my  eyes.  For  all  its  unkempt  scragginess, 
the  place  had  a  homelike  personal  air.  And  I  grew 
to  know  the  neighborhood,  where  we  roamed  about 
as  our  fancy  willed.  No  regular  hours,  no  regular 
meals.  Just  a  snack  now  and  then  in  some  peasant's 
hut;  for  the  housewives  were  hospitable.  During 
the  meal  there  would  be  much  talk,  and  after  that 
we  would  wander  off  into  the  fields  or  into  a  wood, 
and  there  sit  down  to  fill  in  my  notes.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful country.  Through  the  ripening  oats  and  rye, 
white  daisies  and  buttercups  raised  their  heads.     The 


THE  VILLAGE  75 

river  ran  between  high  banks  with  yawning  quarries 
and  ravines;  and  behind  was  a  rolling  country  of 
fields  and  woods  and  gullies,  orchards,  stacks  of  hay 
and  straw,  long  crooked  fences  made  of  poles.  Nar- 
row dirt  roads  wound  about  like  paths,  and  over 
these  roads  came  small  carts  and  tiny  hay  ricks  drawn 
by  ponies.  Peasant  men  and  women  and  children 
passed  Tarasov's  cabin  at  all  hours,  day  and  night. 
A  few  wore  boots  of  leather  or  bark,  but  most  of 
them  went  barefoot,  and  at  night  in  the  darkness 
they  would  flit  by  without  a  sound. 

There  was  mystery  in  this  country.  It  had  many 
old  traditions  and  myths  reaching  back  for  thousands 
of  years.  Across  the  river  on  a  hill  was  a  half- 
ruined  monastery.  Once  it  had  been  a  great  forti- 
fied place,  to  repel  the  Swedish  invaders;  and  for 
escape  in  time  of  need,  the  doughty  monks  of  those 
early  days  had  dug  a  tunnel  under  the  river.  This 
tunnel  came  up  on  the  opposite  side  in  a  dark  cave 
in  the  depths  of  a  quarry.  Small  boys  would  ex- 
plore it  fearsomely. 

Things  were  still  very  primitive  here.  The  ham- 
lets on  our  side  of  the  river  were  forlorn  little  clus- 
ters of  huts,  with  the  heavy  straw-thatched  roofs 
often  rotting  to  decay.  Small  meager  vegetable 
gardens,  rooks  calling  sleepily  in  the  trees,  lean 
prowling  dogs  and  filthy  pigs,  dilapidated  chickens. 
Only  the  white  geese  seemed  to  flourish.  Large  and 
plump  and  spotlessly  clean,  they  made  a  bright  con- 
trast to  the  rest.     Dirt,  refuse  and  poverty.     The 


76  THE  VILLAGE 

housewife  who  would  be  tidy  had  no  easy  time  of 
it.  The  brooms  they  used  were  simply  round 
bundles  of  twigs  bound  onto  sticks.  The  stables 
were  built  right  onto  the  huts.  Horses,  pigs  and 
cattle,  all  lodged  close  to  the  people ;  and  the  strong 
smells  of  the  animals  came  into  the  kitchens. 
Swarm  of  flies  were  everywhere.  There  were  strips 
of  rag  carpet  on  the  floors,  and  I  saw  a  few  looms 
and  spinning  wheels.  Although  most  of  the  chil- 
dren looked  ruddy  and  strong,  I  saw  many  gaunt 
little  urchins  about,  some  pitifully  white  and  weak. 
I  noticed  how  many  had  bad  teeth.  We  kept  meet- 
ing people,  young  and  old,  whose  aching  jaws  were 
bound  up  in  old  cloths. 

Here  life  was  hard  and  meager.  Now  and  then 
we  would  find  a  new  hut,  poorly  built  and  very  small, 
and  we  would  learn  that  it  belonged  to  a  newly 
married  couple  —  often  they  were  mere  boy  and 
girl.  So  they  started  their  homes ;  and  the  end  could 
be  seen  in  huts  a  httle  larger,  but  very  dirty,  very 
old,  that  looked  weighed  down  by  trouble.  These 
people  worked  from  early  to  late.  They  would 
start  for  their  fields  at  daylight,  and  the  evening 
would  find  them  still  toiling  there,  for  it  was  light 
until  nine  o'clock.  We  would  find  whole  families 
working. 

I  remember  one  such  group,  of  a  dozen  men, 
women  and  children,  scattered  over  a  big  square 
field.  A  small  boy  of  six  or  seven  was  coming  out 
from  the  village  nearby  with  a  heavy  iron  kettle 


THE  VILLAGE  77 

and  an  enormous  loaf  of  black  bread.  Red-faced 
and  breathing  hard,  he  was  trudging  toward  a  woman 
who  had  built  a  fire  of  fagots.  Tea  and  bread 
was  to  be  their  lunch.  We  stopped  the  little  urchin, 
and  I  gave  him  a  few  pieces  of  candy,  from  a  store 
which  I  kept  in  my  pocket  for  the  benefit  of  such  as 
he.  It  caused  acute  excitement.  Dropping  the  ket- 
tle and  the  bread,  he  rushed  here  and  there  over 
the  field  showing  his  great  treasures  to  all.  The 
other  children  were  after  him  now,  and  soon  the 
sweets  were  divided.  Then  quickly  the  excitement 
died,  and  the  dull  monotonous  labor  went  on. 

This  field,  like  most  of  those  in  the  district,  was 
a  strange  sight  to  a  foreigner.  The  land  was  divided 
in  long  thin  strips  of  light  green,  yellow  and  silver 
gray,  of  oats  and  barley,  flax  and  rye,  with  borders 
of  weeds  and  thistles  between.  For  the  village,  in 
this  neighborhood,  held  the  land  in  common;  and 
about  once  in  twenty  years  the  village  Mir  would 
meet  and  argue  for  hours  and  hours,  day  after  day, 
and  would  at  last  re-apportion  the  land  according  to 
the  number  of  men  and  boys  in  each  family.  Each 
would  get  a  few  thin  strips,  to  hold  and  till  for  the 
next  generation.  This  old  Russian  system  of  land 
holding  still  prevailed  throughout  most  of  the  coun- 
try; but  as  in  many  parts,  so  here,  there  were  vil- 
lages that  had  given  up  the  plan  of  common  owner- 
ship and  had  permanently  divided  the  land  into  fields 
of  a  few  acres  each,  to  be  held  as  private  property. 
Tarasov  had  urged  this  change  upon  them.     There 


78  THE  VILLAGE 

had  been  endless  waste,  he  said,  In  the  former  sys- 
tem which  gave  to  each  peasant  three  or  four  tiny 
strips  of  land,  some  of  them  barely  ten  feet  wide, 
in  different  parts  of  the  neighborhood.  It  made  any 
improvement  in  tilling  the  soil  practically  impossible. 


One  day,  about  two  miles  from  his  home,  he 
brought  me  to  his  larger  farm.  Close  by,  on  the 
adjoining  land,  was  a  log  dwelling  with  stables  and 
barns,  where  lived  the  peasant  who  had  written  to 
Tarasov  In  Petrograd  urging  him  to  come  and  help 
in  the  new  co-operative  plan.  For  several  years  this 
peasant  had  worked  Tarasov's  farm  on  shares.  My 
friend  had  bought  an  American  plow  and  they  had 
tried  the  deeper  plowing  with  great  success.  Their 
rye  and  barley  grew  rich  and  high,  as  compared  to 
that  on  neighboring  fields  where  the  crops  were  low 
and  sparse.  To-day  the  peasant  was  out  on  a  field 
with  a  plow  and  a  team  of  horses.  His  wife  was 
a  large  strong  woman  about  fifty  years  old  but  still 
in  her  prime;  with  kindly  vigorous  features.  She 
gave  us  a  warm  welcome ;  and  In  the  small  garden 
behind  the  hut,  she  served  us  milk  In  an  earthenware 
bowl  and  a  huge  chunk  of  fresh  black  bread.  Then 
came  a  brown  pudding  and  after  that  fresh  cucum- 
bers. Her  five  small  grandchildren  romping  about 
did  not  seem  to  bother  her. 

"  She  never  worries,"  Tarasov  said,  "  nor  have 
I  ever  seen  her  sit  down.     She  works  with  such  a 


THE  VILLAGE  79 

look  of  quiet  and  good-natured  peace  that  you  would 
swear  she  was  sitting  in  a  very  easy  chair.  But  no, 
she  is  either  cooking  or  cleaning  the  house  or  wash- 
ing the  clothes." 

"  And  the  mending,"  I  suggested.  "  Does  she 
darn  stockings  standing  up?  "  Juv^enale  Ivanovitch 
scowled  at  me. 

"  You  are  always  picking  flaws,"  he  said.  "  Don't 
you  like  my  country?  " 

"Tremendously  —  and  most  of  all  because  of 
the  way  your  writers  have  of  sticking  to  the  truth 
about  life.  But  ever  since  you  brought  me  here  you 
have  tried  to  idealize.  I  tell  you  I'm  going  to 
write  it  all  exactly  as  I  see  it.  It's  wonderful  enough 
as  it  is.  I  like  that  woman  and  I'm  glad  she  has 
sense  enough  to  sit  down  with  the  socks." 

"  All  right,"  he  snapped.  And  we  drank  our 
tea. 

The  peasant  came  in  from  his  work.  He  was 
short-legged,  big-shouldered,  strong  as  a  bull,  with  a 
broad  bearded  face  and  wrinkled  skin;  and  he  had 
little  bright  blue  eyes.  After  his  greeting  he  turned 
at  once  to  the  question  of  the  land.  He  was  anxious 
to  learn  from  Tarasov  how  the  Provisional  Govern- 
ment was  planning  to  divide  it  up. 

"  Will  they  take  all  the  land  in  this  district,"  he 
asked,  "  and  divide  it  among  the  peasants  here? 
Or  will  they  take  all  the  land  in  the  province,  and 
give  a  piece  to  every  one?  If  they  do,  there  will 
be  little  for  each,  because  then  every  idle  loafer  in 


8o  THE  VILLAGE 

the  large  towns  will  come  in  for  his  share."  The 
peasant's  heavy  face  contracted.  "  Sometimes  I 
stop  my  plow  on  the  field,  and  my  horses  wait,  and 
I  ask  myself,  '  Why  should  I  waste  my  labor,  my 
manure  and  seed  on  this  land,  which  may  be  taken 
away  from  me  and  given  all  to  strangers?  '  "  He 
fell  silent  and  stared  down  at  his  hands,  which  were 
trembling  slightly  now.  Tarasov  turned  to  me  and 
said, 

"  This  farm  is  his  passion,  it  is  like  his  child. 
I  have  seen  him  take  up  the  earth  in  his  hand  and 
taste  it,  to  judge  of  its  quality.  In  no  other  coun- 
try in  the  world  have  the  peasants  such  a  love  for 
the  soil." 

Now  the  man  began  to  talk  of  the  plan  for  a 
cooperative.  He  had  thought  it  over  all  summer, 
he  said,  and  there  were  some  questions  he  wanted 
to  ask.  Soon  they  were  discussing  the  endless  ob- 
stacles in  the  way.  The  peasant's  mind  returned 
again  to  his  one  great  anxiety. 

"  Even  if  we  work  out  our  plan,  and  get  all  the 
land  to  the  last  square  foot  under  fine  cultivation," 
he  said,  "  what  will  stop  our  neighbors  from  asking 
the  Starosta  (village  elder)  to  call  together  the 
Mir  and  divide  the  land  all  over  again?  Then  they 
will  get  the  results  of  our  work,  while  they  them- 
selves have  done  nothing  but  open  wide  their  hairy 
throats.  I  tell  you  I  must  be  sure  of  my  land;  I 
must  have  a  full  title,  drawn  up  in  the  town.  I 
must  know  that  every  day  I  work  will  benefit  my 


THE  VILLAGE  8i 

grandchildren.  As  it  is,  I  do  not  own  my  farm. 
It  is  mine  perhaps  for  twenty  years,  but  it  is  owned 
by  the  village.  And  that  is  very  bad  for  me.  1  want 
to  feel  that  always  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  it.  If 
I  want  to  sell  it  —  all  right,  I  can.  If  I  want  to 
join  this  cooperative  plan  of  yours  —  all  right,  I 
can  —  but  even  then  I  must  have  a  full  title  to  my 
shares,  so  that  I  can  sell  if  I  like.  They  must  be 
mine  —  that's  what  I  mean.  I  must  no  longer  be 
a  slave  to  every  loafer  around  me." 

Then  all  at  once  his  small  blue  eyes  flashed  out 
in  a  surprising  way,  as  though  at  sight  of  a  prom- 
ised land.  For  Tarasov  was  describing  how  with 
a  caterpillar  plow  they  could  transform  the  country- 
side, bring  all  the  waste  areas  into  use  and  so  pro- 
vide good  land  for  all.  There  would  be  no  question 
of  seizure  then,  for  there  would  be  enough  for  each. 
The  tractor  was  the  blind  prophet  of  steel  that 
would  lead  them  out  of  the  wilderness.  The  peas- 
ant listened  intently. 

"  Once  I  went  to  Petrograd,"  he  said  in  a  low 
eager  tone.  "  I  went  there  by  the  railroad.  And 
on  the  train  I  thought  to  myself,  *  Suppose  that  we 
had  forty  big  plows  all  dragged  by  such  an  engine 
as  this  —  how  we  would  tear  through  the  bushes 
and  stumps,  how  we  would  cut  through  the  virgin 
soil!  '  Yes,  that  is  what  we  surely  need  —  harrows 
and  plows  and  the  power  to  drive  them !  My  one 
horse  went  so  slowly  that  all  my  farm  work  was 
held  back;  but  since  you  lent  me  your  big  new  plow. 


82  THE  VILLAGE 

I  have  borrowed  another  horse;  and  often  I  will 
drive  the  team  as  fast  as  I  can  make  them  go,  for 
the  fun  of  seeing  such  a  big  furrow  roll  up  from 
the  soil  —  like  a  miracle.  And  I  hear  that  in 
America  they  have  a  machine  so  wonderful  that  it 
plows  and  harrows  all  at  once."  He  glanced  from 
Tarasov  over  to  me.  "  Your  American  friend  must 
think  us  a  very  one-horse  people,"  he  said.  "  Once 
I  saw  a  picture  of  New  York.  The  buildings  there 
go  up  into  the  clouds."  He  was  silent,  then  drew  a 
hungry  breath.  "  And  what  machines  they  have  for 
farms  1 

"  But  things  are  very  hard  for  us  here,"  he  went 
on,  in  a  tone  of  sadness.  "  The  workmen  in  the 
cities  are  getting  enormous  wages  now,  and  I  learn 
from  the  men  on  the  barges  that  some  get  as  high  as 
twenty-five  roubles  for  one  day's  work.  And  yet 
while  all  those  others  get  rich,  the  government  still 
keeps  down  by  law  the  price  at  which  we  can  sell 
our  grain.  I  can  save  nothing.  Often  I  even  lose 
on  a  field.  And  so  it  has  been  with  all  of  us.  We 
have  had  to  eke  out  our  farming  by  working  for  the 
landowners. 

"  One  owner  told  me  last  winter  that  if  I  would 
guard  his  forest  against  theft  of  wood  by  the  peas- 
ants, I  could  pasture  my  cattle  there  this  summer. 
So  I  did  —  but  what  is  the  result?  One  of  my  cows 
was  eaten  up  by  a  bear  this  week  in  those  same 
woods.  They  say  that  a  cow  with  a  bell  on  her  neck 
is  never  lost.     And  they  were  right  about  the  bell; 


THE   VILLAGE  83 

it  was  not  lost;  it  was  on  the  ground.  But  all  the 
rest  of  my  cow  was  gone."  The  peasant  heaved  a 
heavy  sigh.  "  And  how  well  I  guarded  that  forest 
last  winter.  I  used  to  creep  along  on  my  snow- 
shoes  up  to  some  place  where  I  could  hear  chop- 
ping. Then  I  would  up  with  my  shot-gun.  '  Hands 
up!'  I  would  cry.  The  timber  thief  would  call 
back  to  me,  '  Oh,  my  good  neighbor,  don't  you  know 
that  this  forest  belongs  to  God?  It  should  be  free 
for  all  of  us,  brother!  '  But  I  would  keep  my  shot- 
gun up.  'Take  your  ax  and  go  away!'  I  would 
cry.  That  Is  how  well  I  guarded  the  wood.  But 
now  my  cow  is  eaten,  and  so  all  my  labor  went  into 
the  bear. 

*'  Since  then,  things  have  gone  from  bad  to  worse. 
For  this  district  of  twenty  villages,  we  have  only 
two  policemen  —  and,  with  all  the  theft  by  hooligans, 
what  can  two  policemen  do?  .  .  .  But  so  it  is.  So 
it  is  with  us  here.  Well,  tell  me  something  about 
the  war  —  for  I  don't  see  any  newspapers  now." 

"  It  is  bad  enough,"  Tarasov  said,  and  he  gave 
a  brief  account  of  the  retreat  at  Tarnapol  —  whole 
divisions  of  troops  in  panic,  leaving  supplies  and 
munitions  behind  them,  abandoning  their  hea\7'  guns. 
The  peasant  listened  dismally. 

"And  now  all  those  big  guns  are  lost?  Oh, 
that  Is  bad!  "  He  shook  his  head.  "  I  was  once 
myself  a  soldier;  and  I  know  that  for  an  army  it 
Is  far  better  to  be  without  boots  than  without  artil- 
lery."    He  brooded  for  a  moment.     From  a  big 


84  THE  VILLAGE 

lump  of  sugar  he  nibbled  off  a  tiny  piece,  then  drank 
his  tea  and  let  it  sweeten  in  his  mouth;  for  in  this 
way  the  sugar  seemed  to  go  further. 

"  I  hear  no  more  from  my  three  sons,"  he  con- 
tinued quietly.  "  I  think  they  are  still  at  the  front. 
The  last  time  I  heard  from  one  of  them,  he  was  in 
a  hospital.  He  had  been  wounded  three  times,  he 
wrote,  and  besides  his  legs  were  twisted  up  by  rheu- 
matism from  the  trenches.  Where  he  is  now,  I  do 
not  know.  And  the  other  two?  Alive  or  dead? 
We  never  hear."  He  said  this  without  the  slightest 
change  of  expression  on  his  broad  hairy  face. 

"  When  the  war  began,"  he  went  on,  "  my  two 
married  sons  left  their  families  with  me.  Their 
wives  now  work  in  the  district  town  and  we  keep 
the  children  here  —  four  girls  and  a  boy.  I  am 
wondering  how  it  will  be  with  them  when  it  comes 
to  dividing  up  the  land.  It  should  not  be  done  in 
the  old  way,  according  to  the  number  of  boys  in 
every  peasant  family.  The  girls,  too,  should  be 
counted  in.  I  look  at  my  granddaughters  and  think, 
*  Oh,  you  poor  little  creatures.  You  will  be  obHged 
to  hunt  for  a  husband  before  you  can  get  any  land. 
And  without  land  there  is  no  bread.'  As  things 
now  stand,  a  woman  who  bears  only  girls  can  bring 
a  family  to  starvation.  They  should  be  treated  all 
aHke.  Each  family  should  be  given  land  according 
to  the  number  of  children  —  the  mouths  to  be  fed. 
For  this  is  right. 

"  And   they  should  have   better   schooling,    too. 


THE  VILLAGE  85 

Of  what  use  is  it  to  our  children  to  have  city  teach- 
ers who  think  that  bread  grows  on  the  trees?  We 
don't  want  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  educate  our 
girls  and  boys.  If  by  a  miracle  of  the  saints  such 
people  were  robbed  of  all  their  wealth,  we  are  quite 
sure  that  they  would  starve;  for  they  know  nothing 
of  tilling  the  soil  or  of  building  a  hut  or  of  spinning 
flax.  We  want  the  kind  of  teachers  who,  if  they 
were  robbed  and  stripped  naked  here,  would  know 
how  to  begin  their  lives  again  and  in  a  year  be 
prosperous.  Such  teachers  we  want  for  our  chil- 
dren.    We  should  have  them  all  over  Russia." 

The  peasant  sat  impassive,  with  his  brown  gnarled 
hands  on  his  knees,  staring  vaguely  down  the  road. 
I  noticed  the  hard  muscular  limbs  that  showed  be- 
neath his  blue  cotton  blouse.  He  had  lived  his 
whole  life  in  this  neighborhood.  I  was  struck  by 
that  phrase,  "  all  over  Russia."  What  did  he  know 
of  Russia,  stretching  out  over  a  sixth  of  the  globe? 
As  he  looked  off  down  the  road,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  saw  this  village  and  perhaps  the  next  one, 
in  his  fancy,  and  other  localities  nearby,  certain 
roads  and  woods  and  fields  that  were  familiar  to  his 
eye,  and  the  river  banks  and  the  river  itself  mur- 
muring off  toward  the  city.  But  farther  outlines 
all  grew  faint.  Beyond  for  him  lay  only  rumor 
—  a  vague  dim  land  of  hearsay,  myth  and  fable,  sup- 
erstition. 

The  dusk  was  slowly  deepening  now.     We  went 
in  to  have  a  look  at  his  house,  and  I  found  it  clean 


86  THE  VILLAGE 

and  homelike.  In  the  little  living-room,  in  a  queer 
old  hanging  cradle  swinging  slightly  to  and  fro,  lay 
their  tiny  grandson. 

"  He  is  the  son  of  a  soldier,"  his  grandmother 
said  quietly,  "  and  he  will  be  a  soldier,  too."  Tara- 
sov  replied  that  perhaps  by  that  time  there  would 
be  no  need  of  soldiers.  But  she  sighed  and  shook 
her  head.  "  That  will  never  be  possible,"  she  de- 
clared. 

I  noticed  an  "  Ikon  "  on  the  wall,  with  a  candle 
burning  in  front  of  it.  Close  by  hung  a  chromo 
picture  of  a  Russian  bear  hunt,  and  another  of  a 
garden  scene  with  gallants  of  an  age  gone  by,  some- 
where down  in  Italy.  There  was,  too,  a  picture 
here  which  I  have  seen  in  farmers'  homes  in  many 
lands,  the  one  entitled,  "  A  Man's  Life  from  the 
Cradle  to  the  Grave."  We  went  into  the  kitchen, 
and  there  the  woman  showed  to  me  her  huge  brick 
stove.  It  had  been  freshly  whitewashed.  She 
showed  me  the  holes  where  boots  were  dried,  and 
the  long  cavernous  oven,  in  which,  when  a  wood  fire 
had  burned  till  the  bricks  were  thoroughly  heated, 
the  fire  was  then  raked  away  and  the  loaves  went  in. 
Here  she  could  bake  for  five  hours  after  the  fire 
had  gone  out.  And  besides,  in  winter  it  warmed 
the  whole  house. 

Her  grandchildren  had  finished  their  suppers; 
and  now,  as  It  was  Saturday  night,  she  undressed 
them  for  their  weekly  baths.  One  by  one,  wrapped 
tight  in  a  quilt,  the  small  girls  were  carried  out  to 


THE  VILLAGE  87 

the  bath  house,  a  tiny  log  hut  filled  with  steam,  there 
to  be  thoroughly  steamed  and  scrubbed,  for  that 
was  the  usual  custom.  On  our  way  home,  through 
each  village  we  passed,  we  saw  children  being  hustled 
out,  wrapped  in  quilts  and  blankets.  Almost  every 
peasant  hut  had  its  own  little  bath  house  close  by. 

I  shall  long  remember  something  I  saw  in  a  lonely 
hamlet  that  evening.  On  either  side  of  the  narrow 
dirt  road  was  a  row  of  half  a  dozen  huts.  In  the 
deepening  dusk  it  was  silent,  except  for  low  voices 
from  indoors;  and  the  poverty  and  the  loneli- 
ness seemed  to  weigh  down  like  a  pall.  Over  fif- 
teen miles  from  a  railroad,  how  could  the  revolu- 
tion penetrate  to  such  a  spot?  And  if  Russia  were 
a  nation  of  just  such  little  hamlets,  what  hope  of 
gathering  them  all  into  a  great  self-government? 

We  found  a  peasant  there,  all  alone,  scowling  at 
two  proclamations  nailed  to  the  log  wall  of  a  barn. 
One  had  been  put  up  months  before,  a  printed  sheet 
now  stained  and  torn  by  the  weather.  It  had  been 
sent  out  from  Petrograd,  by  the  socialist  Peasants' 
Council,  urging  the  peasants  everywhere  to  help  in 
nationalizing  the  land.  The  other  proclamation, 
laboriously  written  with  pen  and  ink,  was  more  re- 
cent and  was  a  local  affair.  It  was  twice  the  size 
of  the  other  one,  for  on  it  had  been  awkwardly  writ- 
ten the  names  of  over  three  hundred  peasants,  not 
only  men  but  women,  too,  who  lived  in  the  neighbor- 
ing villages.  There  was  added  the  age  and  the  occu- 
pation of  each,  and  the  amount  of  land  he  held. 


88  THE  VILLAGE 

Here  were  the  new  voters  of  the  Russian  republic: 
a  republic  still  unborn,  for  no  elections  had  yet  been 
held.  But  on  the  other  half  of  the  sheet  was  a  list 
of  a  dozen  candidates;  and  it  was  announced  that 
the  first  election  would  take  place  the  following 
month,  in  a  certain  village  school-house. 

"  You  must  think  over  carefully  all  these  candi- 
dates," read  the  announcement,  "  so  that  when  you 
come  together,  each  one  of  you  will  have  decided 
which  are  the  ones  he  wants  to  elect." 

At  all  this  the  peasant  beside  us  was  scowling  in  a 
puzzled  way.     We  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  it. 

"  Well,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  we  must  have  this 
meeting.  We  must  have  it  because  we  need  more 
land.     But  how  we  are  to  do  it,  God  knows." 

We  left  him  standing  in  the  dusk.  And  as  we 
walked  home  I  had  a  feeling  that  in  numberless  ham- 
lets like  this,  silent  places,  mere  specks  in  that  bound- 
less land  of  the  North,  other  lonely  figures  were 
standing  in  the  dusk  that  night,  uncouth  and  silent, 
puzzling,  trying  to  read  the  signs  of  the  times,  strain- 
ing their  eyes  for  a  glimpse  of  the  dawn.  But  the 
dawn  was  not  yet.  The  dusk  slowly  deepened. 
Night  was  settHng  over  the  land. 

3 

As  we  tramped  about  the  countryside,  I  came  to 
notice  more  and  more  what  a  part  the  river  played 
in  the  lives  of  the  people.  With  the  railroad  many 
miles  distant,  the  river  was  their  highway  still.     In- 


THE  VILLAGE  89 

stead  of  coming  to  watch  the  trains,  the  peasants 
came  to  the  village  dock,  where  the  steamer  stopped 
every  morning  and  night.  Here  they  got  their  news 
of  the  world.  And  besides,  with  the  fishing  and 
logging,  the  saw-mills  and  the  quarries,  the  river 
helped  them  to  eke  out  their  hard  living  on  the  land. 

I  never  tired  of  watching  the  ever-changing  river 
life.  On  our  walks  we  would  often  stop  to  watch 
the  stout  women,  girls  and  boys,  loading  stove  wood 
and  big  blocks  of  limestone  onto  barges.  There 
were  always  peasants  fishing  here,  patient  stolid 
figures  kneeling  in  their  rude  canoes,  dug-outs  hewn 
from  poplar  logs,  working  as  a  rule  in  pairs  with  a 
long  coarse  net  between  them.  And  at  all  hours 
day  and  night  the  great  rafts  and  barges  passed.  At 
night  I  would  see  their  slow-moving  red  lights  and 
would  listen  to  the  voices  coming  up  out  of  the  hazy 
dark,  talking,  laughing,  singing.  Beneath  rose  the 
mysterious  voice  of  the  deep,  soft  stream,  as  it 
swirled  along  on  its  way  to  the  distant  city. 

It  carried  my  thoughts  to  Petrograd.  There  in 
the  feverish  days  of  July,  when  the  Bolsheviki  were 
trying  to  seize  the  government,  one  morning  I  saw  a 
riderless  horse  come  tearing  around  a  corner,  snort- 
ing blood,  shot  through  the  neck;  and  as  it  galloped 
along  a  canal,  a  big  black-bearded  peasant  on  a  barge 
piled  high  with  wood  rose  slowly  up  from  a  pit  in  the 
logs  and  scowled  about  in  a  puzzled  way,  while  from 
not  far  off  there  came  the  rattle  of  a  machine  gun. 
I  wondered  what  he  was  thinking  of  this  city  revolu- 


90  THE  VILLAGE 

tion,  the  shouting  crowds,  the  volleys  of  shots,  the 
armored  cars  that  were  racing  by  with  shrill  screams 
of  warning.  For  so  much  depended  on  what  he 
thought,  this  man  who  had  come  floating  down  from 
the  boundless  fields  and  forests  where  the  great  mass 
of  the  Russians  dwell. 

Of  the  attitude  of  such  as  he  toward  the  city  and 
the  changes  there,  I  gathered  many  impressions  now 
from  various  different  angles. 

We  stopped  for  dinner,  one  Sunday,  in  a  hut  close 
down  to  the  water-side.  In  the  village  nearby, 
church  was  just  over,  and  the  peasants  were  flocking 
home :  the  men  in  their  sober  Sunday  suits  of  black 
or  gray,  the  women  in  white  or  colors,  with  gay  ker- 
chiefs over  their  heads.  The  bank  was  low  and 
sloping  here,  and  a  narrow  field  extended  up  from 
behind  the  hut,  while  in  front  of  it  fishing  nets  were 
spread,  and  there  were  oars  and  boat-hooks  and 
coils  of  rope  hanging  up  to  dry.  The  wife  was 
strong  and  capable,  with  reddish  hair,  a  freckled  face 
and  bright  honest  friendly  eyes.  She  had  not  been 
to  church,  she  said,  but  out  on  the  river  fishing. 
She  showed  us  the  seven  big  fish  she  had  caught. 
For  each  one  she  would  receive  seven  roubles  in  the 
market  —  forty-nine  roubles  for  two  hours'  work ! 

"  But  then  I  stopped,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  "  for 
what  is  the  good  of  money,  these  days?  "  Besides, 
this  was  a  holiday.  Soon  her  relatives  would  drop 
in,  and  she  wanted  to  cook  a  nice  dinner  first.  While 
she  moved  about  her  kitchen  she  talked  of  the  high 


THE  VILLAGE  9^ 

prices.  In  Petrograd  the  price  of  stove  wood  rose 
each  week;  and  this,  she  said,  was  partly  because  the 
peasant  boys  and  women  here  demanded  such  big 
wages  for  loading  the  wood  onto  barges. 

*'  They  hardly  know  what  to  ask,"  she  laughed. 
"  It  is  like  a  game.  Every  week  they  keep  asking 
more,  and  always  they  get  it,  and  so  we  go  on.  And 
so  long  as  things  are  in  such  a  state,  why  should  not 
our  people  get  all  they  can?  Petrograd  got  all  the 
profits  once,  and  always  it  was  at  our  expense.  Now 
our  turn  has  come.     Why  shouldn't  we  take  it? 

"  Yes,  we  are  living  pretty  well,"  she  continued 
quietly,  "  in  spite  of  the  disorders  in  towns.  We 
have  plenty  to  eat,  for  we  catch  our  own  fish,  raise 
our  own  chickens,  our  wheat  and  rye  and  vegetables. 
As  for  clothes,  in  almost  every  hut  we  have  old  looms 
and  spinning  wheels  that  we  have  not  used  for  years 
—  but  now  all  the  old  grannies  are  fixing  them  up. 
We  grew  flax  in  our  fields  this  summer;  there  are 
still  enough  sheep  to  give  us  some  wool;  and  so 
this  winter  we'll  make  our  own  clothes." 

Her  log  hut  was  fresh  and  clean.  The  small 
living-room  had  heavy  beams  supporting  the  low 
ceiling.  The  wide  brown  planks  of  the  floor  were 
polished  from  much  scrubbing.  The  partition  walls 
were  painted  blue;  and  so  were  the  doors  and  the 
cupboards  built  into  the  corners.  There  were  flow- 
ered plants  in  the  little  windows.  I  saw  a  Singer 
sewing  machine.  Certainly  they  had  prospered 
here.     They  not  only  farmed  and  fished;  her  hus- 


92  THE  VILLAGE 

band  was  the  foreman  of  a  logging  gang  on  the  river. 
They  had  no  children,  but  on  one  wall  hung  a  photo- 
graph of  a  young  officer  with  his  wife  and  baby.  He 
was  their  nephew,  Tarasov  said.  He  had  been 
badly  wounded  and  was  home  on  leave.  On  his  gray 
jacket,  which  hung  by  the  door,  were  pinned  a  medal 
and  three  Crosses  of  St.  George,  for  the  boy  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  during  the  great  Brusilov  drive 
down  into  the  Carpathians.  It  was  there  he  had 
won  his  commission. 

Soon  he  limped  in  from  the  garden,  a  lean  sinewy 
lad  of  about  twenty-two.  He  was  dressed  in  gray 
uniform  trousers  and  a  soft  yellow  linen  blouse  with 
a  sash  around  the  waist.  His  face  was  gaunt,  with 
high  cheek-bones,  a  light  mustache  and  clear,  steady 
blue  eyes.  Although  friendly  enough  in  his  greeting, 
he  did  not  seem  to  care  to  talk.  His  young  wife 
had  come  in  behind  him,  with  their  baby,  which  she 
gave  him  to  hold  while  she  spread  a  blue  check- 
ered cloth  on  the  table  by  the  window,  and  began 
taking  plates  and  glasses,  spoons,  forks  and  knives, 
from  the  cupboard.  Meanwhile  two  cousins  had 
come  in,  man  and  wife,  the  latter  in  a  blue  silk  dress; 
and  after  them  came  a  rosy  young  niece  and  several 
other  relatives.  Each  guest  made  a  sign  of  the  cross 
and  a  slight  genuflection  before  the  ikon  near  the 
door.  Then  each  was  introduced  to  us.  The  visit 
of  an  American  created  an  impression.  This  was  to 
be  no  informal  affair.  A  quick  vigorous  handshake 
and  a  bow.     Then  silence  all  about  the  room  —  till 


THE  VILLAGE  93 

Tarasov  in  his  genial  way  started  the  conversation. 

The  head  of  the  house  had  now  come  in,  a  strong 
grizzled  man  in  his  fifties,  with  black  eyes  alert  and 
keen.  The  dinner  was  served:  a  large  cold  fish,  a 
loaf  of  black  bread,  and  a  saucer  filled  with  fresh 
caviar;  also  buns  and  jam  and  tea,  which  all  drank 
from  glasses.  As  the  meal  went  on,  they  drank  glass 
after  glass  until  their  faces  glistened.  The  room 
grew  warm,  and  we  opened  the  windows  for  the  cool 
breeze  from  the  river.  Through  the  meal,  our  smil- 
ing hostess  kept  coming  in  and  out  from  the  kitchen, 
stopping  to  listen  now  and  then.  The  talk  at  the 
table  had  centered  little  by  little  around  our  host, 
whom  Tarasov  was  drawing  out  for  my  especial 
benefit.  Soon  the  man  was  giving  his  point  of  view 
on  the  revolution.  The  others  sat  listening  stolidly, 
the  men  now  and  then  lighting  fresh  cigarettes. 
Only  by  a  low  chuckle  or  a  sudden  gleam  in  their 
eyes  could  you  see  how  closely  they  followed  his 
points.  For  as  foreman  of  the  river  gang,  he  was 
one  of  the  leading  men  in  the  village. 

To  begin  with,  he  insisted  that  the  new  government 
must  be  forced  to  give  the  peasants  more  land;  and 
to  prove  the  justice  of  his  claim  he  went  back  many 
years  In  his  life. 

"  When  we  pulled  down  the  old  hut  to  build  this 
one,"  he  said,  "  we  found  in  the  attic  a  pile  of  receipts 
for  the  taxes  paid  to  the  government  for  the  land  we 
were  given  in  1861  (the  time  of  the  Emancipation). 
My  grandfather,  my  father  and  I  have  paid  so  many 


94  THE  VILLAGE 

taxes  for  our  five  desatinas  (twelve  acres)  here, 
that  the  land  could  be  quite  covered  with  the  money 
that  we  gave  for  it.  My  father  and  I  were  made  to 
pay  thirty-six  roubles  every  year,  and  to  get  that 
money  in  the  old  days  cost  us  plenty  of  sweat  and 
blood. 

"  There  was  scarcely  a  week  in  all  the  year  that 
we  were  not  working  hard.  All  through  the  sum- 
mer we  worked  on  the  farm.  From  October  until 
May,  we  fished  and  logged  on  the  river.  And  when 
there  was  no  other  work  to  do,  we  used  to  drag  up 
sunken  logs  from  the  river  bottom.  That  was  a 
slow,  hard  job.  On  a  freezing  winter  morning  we 
would  take  two  boats  out  on  the  ice.  With  our  axes 
we  would  chop  through  the  ice  and  make  a  space  as 
big  as  this  hut.  Into  this  space  we  would  shove  the 
two  boats  and  fill  them  with  water.  Then  with 
spiked  poles  we  would  feel  for  the  logs  on  the  bottom 
twenty  feet  below.  We  would  drive  four  poles  into 
a  log  and  fasten  the  poles  by  chains  to  the  boats. 
Then  we  would  bail  the  water  out,  and  the  boats 
would  rise  because  they  must  —  as  you  might  say,  by 
the  will  of  God.  And  as  they  rose,  with  the  spiked 
poles  they  would  pull  the  log  loose  from  the  mud 
below.  It  took  nearly  a  day  to  get  one  log;  and 
for  this  we  received  between  one  and  two  roubles. 

"  Again  we  would  gather  the  fire  wood  that  drifted 
down  from  barges  broken  up  in  the  cataracts.  We 
hired  out  as  watchmen,  too,  to  guard  the  logs  on  the 
riverside.     Before  the  railroad  was  laid  down,  my 


THE  VILLAGE  95 

father  used  to  drive  travelers  in  a  sledge  one  hun- 
dred versts  (sixty-five  miles)  to  Petrograd;  and  when 
he  came  back  from  such  a  long  journey,  he  would 
look  like  Grandfather  Frost.  So  we  labored;  so  we 
saved.  It  was  a  heavy  life.  As  soon  as  the  ice 
broke  up  in  the  spring,  we  were  always  either  fishing 
or  working  this  small  farm  of  ours.  When  I  mar- 
ried I  was  a  lucky  man,  for  my  wife  was  a  fine  helper. 
Her  hands  have  been  like  gold  to  me.  She  planted 
the  vegetable  garden  here;  she  raised  chickens  and 
pigs;  and  all  the  time  she  made  my  old  man  and  me 
comfortable.  Such  cooking!  You  can  taste  for 
yourself.     And  you  see  how  clean  she  keeps  the  hut. 

"  But  this  is  what  I  want  to  say.  I  say  this  land  is 
all  our  own,  and  that  now  we  ought  to  have  still 
more,  because  since  1861  we  have  paid  the  govern- 
ment many  times  its  value.  The  Czar  is  our  debtor, 
so  now  I  claim  it  is  quite  right  and  legal  for  us 
peasants  to  take  more  land  for  ourselves.  Nor  will 
we  ask  for  it  as  alms.  We  will  take  first  the  lands 
of  the  Crown  and  then  the  private  owners'  estates. 
The  trouble  will  come  in  dividing  it  up.  How  that 
will  be  done,  I  do  not  know.  It  must  be  managed  in 
such  a  way  so  as  not  to  stop  the  farming. —  for  God 
knows  we  need  all  the  grain  we  can  raise. 

"  I  don't  believe  that  the  cities  will  be  able  to  help 
us  in  this,  for  they  know  nothing  of  our  real  needs 
and  they  work  all  kinds  of  foolish  tricks.  Just  to 
give  you  one  case  —  they  move  forward  the  hands  of 
the  clock,  and  they  call  it  '  daylight  saving.'     How 


96  THE  VILLAGE 

does  this  '  daylight  saving '  work?  I  used  to  get  up 
in  the  morning  at  five.  All  right,  I  get  up  at  the 
same  time  still,  except  that  by  the  clock  it  is  six.  For 
the  lazy  people  in  towns,  the  clock  may  tell  them  how 
to  live ;  but  for  us  who  already  use  all  the  light  that 
the  sun  can  give,  what  a  childish  trick  this  is! 

"  In  the  towns  they  complain  that  our  wood  con- 
tractors charge  too  much  for  fire  wood.  But  how 
can  they  expect  us  to  sell  it  at  a  lower  price,  when  here 
in  the  stores  we  have  to  pay  such  enormous  prices 
for  everything  that  comes  to  us  from  the  city?  The 
towns  will  not  give  us  what  we  need.  We  are 
afraid  to  mow  fast  in  the  fields ;  for  we  know  that  if 
we  should  break  our  scythes,  there  are  no  others  to 
be  had.  And  we  have  to  mow,  or  we  shall  starve. 
Yet  now  they  say  in  the  cities  that  we  should  sell  at 
prices  fixed  by  the  new  government.  But  we  will  not 
sell  at  any  price  !  They  won't  get  any  grain  from  us, 
so  long  as  things  go  on  like  this ! 

"  Just  take  a  trip  to  Petrograd.  Go  to  any  rail- 
road siding  there  and  you  will  see  perfect  hills  of 
scrap  iron.  Why  can't  they  melt  it  up  again  and  put 
it  to  use?  Soon  we  shall  have  no  axles  left,  no  tires 
for  our  wagon  wheels,  no  chains  for  the  logs,  no 
plows  for  the  fields,  no  horseshoes  for  our  horses ! 
But  still  they  do  nothing!  The  blind  fools!  The 
trouble  with  those  people  is  that  they  think  all  the 
best  things  are  made  in  the  cities.  It  is  not  so. 
Here  we  grow  the  flax  and  grain;  here  we  raise  the 
meat  they  eat,  and  the  wool  to  keep  them  warm;  we 


THE  VILLAGE  97 

cut  trees  to  build  their  houses  and  fire  wood  to  heat 
their  stoves.  They  could  not  even  cook  without  us! 
Other  country  districts  turn  out  the  coal  and  iron 
ore.  All  the  real  things  in  Russia  are  done  in  the 
villages.  What  kind  of  crops  do  they  raise  in  the 
towns?  Only  Grand-Dukes,  Bolsheviki  and  drunk- 
ards !  I  tell  you  it  would  be  possible  to  have  a  whole 
country  without  any  cities  —  only  small  towns  and 
villages,  all  joined  together  by  railroads.  And  I  am 
sure  we  should  do  very  well.  The  cities  we  do  not 
need  at  all.  The  cities  make  people  think  like  men 
who  have  fallen  sick  and  are  lying  in  bed  with  a  fever. 
Only  on  farms  or  deep  in  the  forest  or  out  on  the 
river  while  you  fish,  can  you  think  a  thing  out  clearly. 
For  there  your  life  goes  quietly,  and  you  learn  only 
what  is  worth  while. 

"  This  whole  revolution  was  manufactured  in  the 
towns,  and  it  is  as  flimsy  as  other  town  productions. 
Look  how  shallow  it  runs.  They  say,  '  This  is  a 
democracy.  We  speak  for  all  the  people.'  But 
how  can  they  claim  to  speak  for  us  when  we  have 
never  heard  of  them?  What  right  have  they  to 
speak  in  our  names  and  say  that  the  peasants  want 
this  and  that,  when  we  have  not  yet  opened  our 
mouths?  That  is  damnable  trickery!  Between 
them  and  us  there  is  the  same  gap  as  between  a  man 
who  drives  a  sledge  and  another  man  who  rides  on  a 
train.  The  first  one  has  plenty  of  time  to  think,  out 
under  the  sun  or  the  stars  at  night;  the  second  is 
rushed  along  in  the  train  and  chatters  like  a  babbling 


98  THE  VILLAGE 

fool,  and  meanwhile  thinks  nothing  clear  at  all,  ex- 
cept what  rotten  tobacco  the  man  next  to  him  is  smok- 
ing. 

"  That  is  how  they  are  in  the  towns.  They  want 
to  change  Russia  in  a  day.  What  idiots  I  It  cannot 
be  done.  If  I  have  a  piece  of  virgin  soil  to  turn  into 
arable  land,  first  I  shall  have  to  plow  it  well,  then 
harrow  it  and  seed  it  down,  and  by  the  time  I  have 
produced  the  right  rotation  of  crops  on  that  field, 
I  will  have  spent  perhaps  five  years  —  and  all  for  the 
simple  matter  of  a  few  desatinas  of  soil.  But  here 
these  people  in  cities  are  proclaiming  such  reforms  as 
have  never  been  tried  throughout  the  world  —  and 
yet  they  try  to  rush  them  through!  Once  I  read  a 
big  brown  book  that  told  about  the  life  of  the  world; 
and  in  the  first  chapter  I  read  to  my  wife  that  the 
seven  days  of  creation,  which  the  Bible  tells  about, 
were  really  a  matter  of  millions  of  years,  but  that  a 
million  years  and  a  day  are  all  the  same  to  the  great 
God.  Are  these  town  people  gods  that  they  will 
rebuild  the  whole  world  in  a  day,  and  the  minds  and 
habits  of  all  people  on  it? 

"  They  have  begun  from  the  wrong  end.  If  they 
had  been  wise,  at  the  very  start,  as  soon  as  they  had 
dethroned  the  Czar,  they  would  have  brought  iron 
discipline  into  the  Russian  army,  both  at  the  front 
and  at  the  rear;  and  in  the  towns  they  would  have 
said  to  all  the  loafers,  '  You  must  work !  ' 

"  What  armies  of  idlers  are  in  the  towns.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  four-fifths  of  the  people  in  Petro- 


THE  VILLAGE  99 

grad  simply  loafed,  all  of  them  waiting  for  Russia  to 
starve,  while  out  here  every  pair  of  hands  could  be 
used  at  a  big  profit.  I  am  sure  that  by  next  March, 
Petrograd  will  have  nothing  to  eat.  Then  swarms 
of  these  loafers  will  come  to  us.  And  what  shall  we 
do?  For  half  of  them  are  soldiers,  and  our  peasant 
pitchforks  are  no  good  against  their  rifles.  Perhaps 
the  outcome  of  it  will  be  that  we  shall  be  forced  to 
feed  these  beasts  and  starve  ourselves  —  all  because 
they  are  loafing  now  !  " 

The  peasant  broke  off  with  an  anxious  scowl;  and 
his  nephew,  the  young  ensign,  said  in  a  low,  quiet 
tone, 

"Why  should  you  let  them  take  your  grain? 
Why  not  fight  for  it  like  men?  I  can  raise  a  com- 
pany here  myself  that  will  stand  against  that  city 
crowd.  They  are  nothing  but  garrison  troops  who 
have  never  seen  a  gun  pointed  their  way.  If  you  let 
them  have  your  wheat  and  rye,  they  will  sell  it  all 
to  Germany.  The  best  thing  is  to  let  them  starve, 
until  they  listen  to  reason  and  lick  the  army  into 
shape.  All  the  ofl'icers  I  know,  and  a  good  many 
soldiers,  too,  would  be  glad  to  see  the  death  penalty 
back.  A  few  thousand  fellows  hanged  and  shot 
would  save  perhaps  millions  of  lives  later  on.  As  it 
is,  we  are  getting  ready  to  let  the  German  armies  in." 

He  turned  to  Tarasov  and  added,  in  his  toneless 
even  voice : 

"  There  are  crowds  of  deserters  everywhere  hid- 
ing in  the  villages.     And  we  can't  arrest  them,  be- 


loo  THE  VILLAGE 

cause  the  peasants  say,  '  What  Is  the  use  ?  Why  send 
these  boys  to  Petrograd  to  sit  on  park  benches  and 
loaf  with  the  rest?  '  " 

Watching  his  gaunt,  quiet  face,  I  thought  what  a 
boy  he  was  himself.  A  veteran  at  twenty-two,  he 
had  had  three  years  of  war,  had  been  in  the  Brusilov 
drive,  that  vast  resistless  rush  of  men  by  millions  for 
two  hundred  miles,  day  and  night  with  fearful  losses, 
far  down  into  Hungary.  What  black  hideous  night- 
mares, what  prodigious  panoramas  he  had  seen. 
Then  I  heard  him  saying  softly, 

"  It  Is  hard  to  tell  what  will  happen  before  all  this 
has  come  to  an  end.  But  some  of  us  will  keep  wait- 
ing until  we  see  a  real  chance  for  an  army.  It  may 
be  a  year  —  it  may  be  two.  But  we  are  waiting, 
men  like  me,  all  over  Russia.  You  will  see.  We 
don't  want  the  Kaiser  in  place  of  the  Czar.  We 
want  to  be  rid  of  both  of  them." 

4 

As  we  were  about  to  leave,  another  visitor  arrived, 
a  genial  giant  of  a  man  who  greeted  Tarasov  like  an 
old  friend.  Tall,  erect  and  muscular,  he  had  hand- 
some, regular  features,  a  blond  mustache  and  bushy 
hair.  He  wore  a  light  gray  summer  suit,  as  a  man 
in  the  city  might  have  dressed;  and  his  manner  was 
easy  and  assured.  He  had  been  a  peasant  boy,  but 
now  he  was  part  owner  of  a  saw-mill  down  the  river. 
Tarasov  had  helped  him,  two  years  before,  to  install 


THE  VILLAGE  loi 

a  turbine  wheel;  and  now  as  they  talked  about  the 
mill,  he  asked  us  to  come  and  see  him  soon. 

We  went  to  his  place  on  the  following  day.  It 
was  about  a  mile  away,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
river.  A  small,  ragged  girl  about  eight  years  old 
rowed  us  across  In  a  battered  dory,  and  Indignantly 
declined  my  offer  to  help  her  with  the  oars.  On  the 
other  side  we  tramped  along  till  we  came  to  a  large 
village  of  some  forty  or  fifty  huts  in  a  long  row  on  the 
river-bank.  This  village  had  come  into  life  as  an 
adjunct  to  the  saw-mill,  which  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
war  had  employed  two  hundred  hands.  The  mill 
was  a  huge,  long  building,  with  mounds  of  shavings 
and  sawdust  about.  We  found  it  cool  and  dim  In- 
side, a  cavernous  place  where  the  air  was  full  of  the 
shrieks  of  the  saws  as  they  tore  through  the  logs. 
Some  forty  peasants  were  working  there.  Suddenly 
a  whistle  blew,  and  at  once  all  stopped  their  work. 
It  was  five  o'clock.  Soon  we  had  the  place  to  our- 
selves; and  while  we  waited  for  his  friend,  Tarasov 
told  me  about  him. 

"  This  chap  is  typical,"  he  said,  "  of  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  small  millers,  contractors,  country  store- 
keepers and  the  like,  who  long  before  the  revolution 
were  coming  to  be  a  class  by  themselves.  Although 
a  small  minority,  they  are  the  men  of  personal  force 
in  their  towns  or  villages,  and  they  will  have  to  be 
reckoned  with  in  the  building  of  the  new  Russia. 
Moreover,  as  these  fellows  force  their  way  up  from 


XT" 


102  THE  VILLAGE 

the  bottom,  they  are  met  by  men  like  me  from  the 
top,  small  landowners,  country  gentlemen,  who  are 
far  more  democratic  than  the  great  landed  proprie- 
tors, and  want  a  free  Russia  on  practical  lines. 
Take  my  case.  As  you  have  seen,  I  am  welcomed 
everywhere  we  go  —  most  of  all  by  this  type  of 
peasant.  He  and  I  understand  each  other  like 
brothers,  for  our  interests  are  the  same.  Besides, 
there  has  been  marriage  between  us.  Though  my 
mother  was  of  noble  birth,  my  father  was  of  peasant 
stock.  And  the  oldest  daughter  of  my  friend  the 
mill-owner  here  was  married  last  year  to  the  son  of 
the  landowner  over  across  the  river.  He  was  an 
officer  in.  the  Guards. 

"  And  yet,  thirty  years  ago,  this  girl's  father  was 
a  ragged  boy  who  with  his  older  brother  fed  the  hogs 
for  a  landowner  nearby.  The  two  boys  were  am- 
bitious and  worked  hard.  This  one  used  to  come  at 
night  to  my  father's  house  to  borrow  books.  He 
was  then  sixteen.  I  was  at  that  time  just  finishing 
the  gymnasium  (higher  school)  in  the  district  town, 
to  prepare  for  the  university.  And  this  chap  and  I 
became  good  friends.  I  found  that  the  books  which 
appealed  to  him  were  always  those  on  mechanics. 
He  had  little  spare  time,  most  of  the  year,  for  he  got 
up  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  was  busy  until  night. 
Still,  when  I  say  '  busy  '  I  mean  it  In  the  Russian  way. 
In  a  Russian  busy  day  there  are  plenty  of  times  out- 
doors or  within  when  a  boy  or  a  man  can  talk  or  read. 
You  Yankees  smile  at  us  for  that  —  just  as  you  are 


THE  VILLAGE  103 

smiling  now,  and  just  as  I  have  seen  you  smile  when 
we  went  to  busy  offices  in  Petrograd  in  the  after- 
noons and  found  them  drinl^ing  tea  there." 

"  For  an  hour  or  two,"  I  put  in. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Tarasov,  "  while  Yankees  always 
rush  along.  But  I  think  it  would  do  both  of  us  good 
if  you  Americans  stopped  at  times  to  think  what  you 
are  doing,  and  we  Russians  tried  a  little  more  to  do 
what  we  are  thinking." 

I  still  smiled  at  my  Russian  friend.  I  liked  Tara- 
sov. Little  by  little  we  had  come  to  understand  each 
other  well. 

"  Go  on  with  your  yarn  about  the  two  brothers." 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  "  while  one  studied  books 
on  mechanics  and  made  toy  saw-mills  and  other 
machines,  the  older  brother  stuck  so  hard  to  the  work 
on  his  master's  estate  that  soon  he  was  made  man- 
ager there;  and  so  in  six  or  seven  years  they  had 
saved  up  about  eight  hundred  roubles  between  them. 
Then  they  built  a  little  mill,  not  half  the  size  of  this 
one,  and  got  a  few  small  timber  contracts.  They 
had  a  hard  time  for  the  next  five  years;  but  after  that, 
they  were  on  their  feet;  and  now  their  business  has  so 
grown  that  this  large  village  has  sprung  up  along  the 
river-bank,  simply  to  house  their  workingmen.  So 
much  for  the  peasant  who  had  fought  his  way  well  up 
in  life  before  the  revolution.  How  is  he  going  to 
take  it  now?  " 

Juvenale  Ivanovitch  was  going  on  to  speak  of  this 
when  the  millowner  himself  came  in.     Tall,  power- 


104  THE  VILLAGE 

ful  and  self-assured,  he  seemed  to  be  the  sort  of 
man  who  could  wield  a  deal  of  influence.  At  pres- 
ent, there  could  be  no  mistake  about  his  hostility 
toward  a  part  at  least  of  the  revolution.  In  a  quiet, 
smiling  way,  he  told  how  several  years  ago  he  had 
worked  his  men  in  two  shifts  of  twelve  hours  each. 
Later,  he  said,  he  had  found  it  paid  better  to  increase 
his  force  and  work  three  eight-hour  shifts  in  the  mill, 
because  in  that  way  he  increased  the  pace.  But 
since  the  revolution,  the  men  had  gone  crazy,  he 
declared. 

"  They  said,  '  Now  we  are  all  free  men,  and  no 
free  men  will  work  at  night.'  I  told  them  that  I 
quite  agreed.  '  So  long  as  you  feel  as  free  as  that, 
I  will  let  two-thirds  of  you  go,'  I  said,  '  and  work 
only  one  shift  of  eight  hours  here,'  "  He  looked 
around  the  dim  shadowy  place,  left  idle  for  the  pres- 
ent, but  it  did  not  seem  to  bother  him.  "  We  shall 
go  on,"  he  said,  "  in  time.  Good  wages  and  three 
eight-hour  shifts  —  that  is  a  combination  that  no 
revolution  can  stop  for  long.  Come  and  have  a 
look  at  my  machines." 

As  he  took  us  through  the  mill  and  talked  of  the 
big  saws  and  lathes,  there  was  something  deep  as 
youth  itself  in  his  absorption  in  these  things.  Plainly 
they  were  new  to  him  still.  His  expanding  life  had 
just  begun,  and  the  war  and  the  revolution  were  only 
interruptions.  He  gave  me  the  feeling  I'd  had  be- 
fore in  this  quiet  country  neighborhood,  a  feeling 
of  the  power  of  the   daily  job   and  life,   of  habit 


THE  VILLAGE  105 

and  regular  routine,  over  the  decisions  of  men. 
Such  places  and  such  men  as  this,  scattered  all 
through  Russia,  would  exert  a  steady  pressure, 
slowly  Increasing  month  by  month.  Against  it  the 
Bolshevik!  would  storm,  but  the  new  free  nation 
that  emerged  would  not  be  what  they  had  seen  in 
their  dreams. 

In  the  tool  shop  of  the  mill,  the  owner  showed 
us  his  two  sons,  a  boy  of  six  and  another  of  twelve. 
They  made  me  think  at  once  of  their  father;  for 
together  they  were  engrossed  at  a  lathe,  turning  out 
a  new  axle  for  their  small  wagon,  to  which  they 
were  going  to  harness  their  dog. 

"  It's  better  than  a  school  for  them,"  their  father 
said,  as  we  went  away.  "  They  are  here  for  hours 
every  day." 

He  took  us  to  his  home  nearby,  a  white  frame 
house  two  stories  high.  Plainly  we  were  expected 
there,  for  a  bouncing  "  hired  girl  "  eagerly  opened 
the  door  for  us,  and  while  we  waited  In  the  front 
room  we  could  hear  excited  voices  upstairs.  I  was 
interested  to  see  this  home  of  the  people  who  had 
been  peasants  only  a  few  years  before.  The  room 
was  papered  In  blue  and  gold.  There  was  a  great 
blue  stove  of  tile  rising  to  the  ceiling,  and  a  baby 
grand  piano  on  which  stood  a  large  gramophone 
with  a  horn  of  vivid  green.  Some  fifty  discs  were 
piled  nearby.  The  windows  had  lace  curtains;  in 
each  was  a  geranium  plant.  On  the  table  there  was 
an  enormous  album  of  purple  plush,  In  which  had 


io6  THE  VILLAGE 

been  pasted  hundreds  of  post-cards  scribbled  by 
friends  all  over  Russia.  Some  were  from  soldiers 
and  officers  down  along  the  Russian  front,  Including 
the  young  lieutenant  who  had  married  the  oldest 
daughter  here.  She  was  not  at  home  at  present,  but 
her  mother  and  the  younger  daughter  soon  came 
down  to  see  us.  Ushered  into  the  dining-room,  we 
sat  about  the  table  and  were  served  with  tea,  black 
bread  and  jam. 

"  Black  bread  Is  solid  food,"  said  the  mother. 
"  White  bread  Is  nothing  but  trimmings,"  she  added, 
with  good-natured  scorn.  She  was  an  enormous 
woman,  weighing  a  full  two  hundred  pounds.  In 
her  plain  black  dress  she  sat  at  the  table,  talking 
little  but  watching  closely  to  see  that  each  one  of  us 
ate  enough.  The  moment  I  had  drunk  my  tea,  she 
insisted  on  filling  my  glass  again.  To  drink  less  than 
four  or  five  glasses  was  an  insult  to  the  hostess.  She 
seemed  to  have  little  interest  in  anything  outside 
her  house  and  the  flower  and  vegetable  garden  out- 
side, which  she  attended  to  herself. 

Meanwhile,  the  daughter,  a  slim  brunette  of  about 
sixteen  who  had  donned  In  our  honor  a  blue  silk 
waist,  was  eagerly  telling  Tarasov  about  the  winter 
just  gone  by.  She  had  nothing  to  say  of  the  revo- 
lution; she  had  apparently  missed  all  that.  For  her 
there  had  been  something  vastly  more  engrossing 
—  her  first  year  In  boarding  school.  She  talked 
gayly  of  the  things  she  had  learned  and  of  all  the 
fun  she  had  had  In  that  school  in  the  district  town. 


THE  VILLAGE  107 

There  she  had  gone  each  Monday  morning  and 
had  come  home  on  Saturday  night.  She  told  of  the 
new  friends  she  had  made  and  the  plays  in  which 
she  had  taken  part;  she  spoke  of  the  new  dances  come 
all  the  way  from  America.  As  I  watched  her,  I 
wondered  whether  she,  too,  would  marry  an  officer 
of  the  Guards. 

Would  there  be  any  Guards?  What  was  coming 
in  Russia?  Certainly  such  people  as  these  would 
oppose  any  extreme  leveling  down.  Even  the  good- 
natured  mother  spoke  with  a  sharp  bitterness  against 
the  river  hooligans  who  had  tried  to  start  riots  here 
— "  with  their  lies  and  their  crazy  nonsense  about 
robbing  honest  people  like  us  of  what  we  have  spent 
our  lives  to  get!  " 

Soon  a  brisk  little  woman  came  in  and  was  hos- 
pitably received.  She  was  a  charity  worker  who  had 
been  sent  out  from  Petrograd  with  some  forty  or- 
phan children.  Through  the  aid  of  our  hostess,  she 
had  rented  for  next  to  nothing  a  large  empty  house 
nearby,  and  there  she  was  giving  the  children  a 
summer  in  the  country.  The  stout  peasant  mother 
was  sympathetic  toward  this  work. 

"  When  people  like  us  get  up  in  the  world  we  ex- 
pect to  help  the  poor,"  she  said.  There  was  a  placid 
pride  in  her  eyes. 

5 
We   left  these   brand-new  bourgeois,   with   their 
vigor  and  zest  in  life  and  their  smiling  self-reliance, 


io8  THE  VILLAGE 

and  walked  off  down  the  river-bank  past  long  strag- 
gling rows  of  log  huts  and  hovels,  the  homes  of 
their  workingmen.  These  people,  too,  had  been 
peasants  only  a  few  years  before;  but  now  the  men 
were  mill  hands.  Here  among  the  peasants  them- 
selves had  risen  the  clash  of  interest  between  em- 
ployer and  employed.  I  wondered  what  would  come 
of  it?  I  liked  this  owner  of  the  mill,  with  his  quiet 
passion  for  work  and  his  immense  vitality;  I  liked 
his  wife  and  their  two  small  boys  and  their  girl, 
with  her  fresh  animation.  But  I  was  growing  hun- 
gry for  a  glimpse  of  the  other  people. 

"  Let's  see  a  few  of  these  hooligans,"  I  proposed 
to  Tarasov.  "  You  have  shown  me  the  respectable 
lot  —  and  they're  all  very  fine  —  but  they're  not 
enough.  They  all  agree  too  nicely  with  your  own 
outlook  on  life,  and  your  own  pet  cure  and  salvation 
for  Russia." 

Tarasov  walked  in  silence.  His  expression  had 
grown  grim. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  prove  to  you  that 
I  can  be  a  good  fellow,  too,  even  with  the  hooligans. 
My  father  used  to  paint  them,  and  I  used  to  help 
by  mixing  among  them  to  find  models  for  his 
brush." 

In  the  dusk,  which  was  fast  deepening,  we  tramped 
along  the  river-bank.  Presently  from  down  by  the 
water  we  heard  a  gay  hubbub  of  voices,  sudden 
laughter  now  and  then;  and  coming  around  the  cor- 
ner of  an  old  log  stable,  we  saw  a  score  of  men 


THE  VILLAGE  109 

and  boys,  their  faces  lighted  in  the  dark  by  a  large 
bonfire  there,  with  a  couple  of  black  iron  pots  swing- 
ing slowly  over  the  flames.  Close  by  the  door  of 
the  stable  was  a  short  stocky  man  with  black  hair, 
who  was  busy  with  an  ax  and  knife  cutting  up  the 
carcass  of  a  cow.  He  claimed  that  they  had  bought 
it  from  a  peasant  up  the  river.  As  he  tossed  the 
great  chunks  of  meat  into  a  barrel  beside  him,  and 
sprinkled  in  coarse  salt  from  a  bag,  he  explained 
that  they  were  raft  men  who  had  put  in  to  camp  for 
the  night.  Soon  the  crowd  caught  sight  of  us  and 
called  to  us  to  come  and  sit  down. 

So  we  had  another  tea  party,  but  there  was  noth- 
ing bourgeois  here!  This  spot  had  often  been  used 
before  by  such  gangs  for  a  bivouac.  A  huge  log 
served  as  a  table,  and  on  logs  on  either  side  sat  two 
rows  of  men  and  boys  hungrily  devouring  enormous 
chunks  of  black  bread,  and  drinking  from  their  dirty 
tin  cups  strong  tea  and  a  meat  soup  they  had  made. 
There  were  two  small  pails  of  blackberries  into  which 
each  dipped  his  hand.  They  were  a  noisy  rollicking 
crowd. 

"  Where  are  you  from?  "  Tarasov  asked. 

*'  Most  of  us  from  Novgorod,"  cried  a  short  tow- 
headed  chap,  with  a  bullet  head  and  wide  square  jaws. 
"Where  the  devil  else  could  we  have  come  from? 
See  what  hooligans  we  are.  Only  In  Novgorod, 
brother,  does  God  make  such  specimens !  " 

"  That's  a  lie,"  said  a  tough  red-headed  boy,  w'ho 
looked  about  fifteen  years  old.     His  mouth  was  quite 


no  THE  VILLAGE 

full  at  the  moment;  with  an  effort  he  gulped  down 
his  food.  "  We  come  from  all  over,"  he  declared. 
"  I  come  myself  from  just  down  the  river.  God  only 
knows  where  I  shall  end.  Before  I  get  through  I 
will  make  every  river  in  Holy  Russia  give  me  a  ride. 
That's  the  fellow  I  am!  " 

Then  a  thin,  stoop-shouldered,  gaunt-looking  man, 
with  a  ghost  of  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  said  solemnly 
to  Tarasov: 

"  It  was  sad  news  for  us,  Barin,  when  our  beloved 
little  Czar  was  kicked  off  his  golden  throne.  Sorrow 
weighed  down  upon  our  souls  to  such  a  degree  that 
we  left  our  raft  and  climbed  far  up  a  wooded  hill  to 
a  holy  monastery  there,  which  had  the  same  name 
as  our  Czar.  Saint  Nickolas  was  its  patron  saint. 
And  so,  to  the  glory  of  Nick  the  Saint  and  of  Little 
Nick  the  Czar,  we  went  in  and  took  the  holy  relics, 
stuff  all  made  of  gold  and  silver  —  jewels  stuck  in 
everywhere.  And  we  piled  them  all  upon  our  raft, 
so  that  none  of  those  sinful  Bolsheviki  should  get  a 
chance  to  rob  the  good  God.  When  we  came  near 
to  Petrograd,  we  hid  them  all  in  a  little  wood.  And 
there,  when  it  had  been  arranged,  we  sold  them  one 
night  to  three  Petrograd  Jews.  Then  we  made  them 
kneel  on  the  ground  and  beg  us  not  to  cut  their 
throats.  We  let  them  load  the  holy  stuff  into  an  old 
automobile  —  and  off  they  went,  while  we  sang  them 
a  song." 

"  These  Bolsheviki,"  growled  a  man  with  a  square 


THE  VILLAGE  in 

head  and  a  short  heavy  beard  already  half  gray. 
"  BolshevikI,  Bolsheviki  —  how  they  shout  about  be- 
ing free  men.  What  do  they  know  about  being  free  ? 
They  know  nothing  but  books,  they  sit  indoors  and 
scribble  and  read  and  talk  like  clerks  —  and  they 
are  so  busy  making  us  free  that  they  have  no  time  to 
be  free  themselves!  Let  them  come  and  find  what 
freedom  is  I     We'll  show  'em!  " 

There  was  a  chorus  of  cries. 

"  Turn  their  stomachs  inside  out,"  declared  the 
tough  red-headed  boy.  "  Then  take  those  stomachs 
in  a  pile  down  to  the  river  and  scrub  them  well  — 
and  give  them  back  to  the  little  men,  and  say,  '  Now, 
brothers,  see  how  good  it  feels  to  be  free  of  all 
your  thinking!  '  " 

One  of  the  youngsters  started  a  song,  and  the  rest 
came  in  on  the  refrain  —  to  the  glory  of  their  wan- 
dering life.  Here  indeed  were  Ishmaelites,  ab- 
horred by  respectable  villagers.  There  were  per- 
haps a  million  such  men  on  the  long  winding  rivers 
of  Russia,  from  Archangel  to  the  Volga  and  far 
down  to  Astrachan.  Their  ranks  were  recruited 
constantly  from  villages  along  the  way;  for  the  river 
called,  and  the  peasant  boys  strolled  into  the  bivouacs 
at  night,  and  soon  they  joined  the  wanderers;  work- 
ing and  sleeping  on  their  rafts,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  buy  or  steal  the  meat  and  other  provisions 
they  needed.  They  earned  good  wages,  and  some  of 
them  sent  money  home  to  their  families,  but  most 


112  THE  VILLAGE 

had  sprees  in  the  larger  towns  —  or  at  least  they  did 
in  the  old  vodka  days. 

Tarasov,  as  we  walked  away,  told  of  other  wan- 
derers —  of  the  armies  of  labor  that  roamed  about 
from  one  big  job  to  another,  on  railroads,  bridges, 
dams,  canals;  and  of  the  traveling  blacksmiths  and 
tailors  and  shoemakers  who  made  a  semi-hobo  class. 
I  stopped  to  look  back  on  the  firelight  and  the  small 
black  figures  of  men  and  boys;  I  listened  to  their 
singing,  their  voices  and  their  laughter,  and  to  the 
sweet  low  voice  of  the  river  murmuring  close  by  my 
side.  I  thought  of  the  thousands  of  bivouacs  along 
the  rivers  of  the  land  that  were  burning  that  night 
and  would  still  burn  in  the  many  nights  ahead. 
They  would  be  multiplied  tenfold.  For  as  the 
armies  disbanded,  innumerable  recruits  would  come 
to  join  these  wandering  hooligans.  I  wondered 
what  part  they  would  play  in  the  tumultuous  months 
ahead.  The  Great  Revolution  had  so  many  parts, 
so  many  jarring  factors.  I  recalled  the  radical 
workingmen  whom  I  had  seen  in  the  cities,  the  thrifty 
prosperous  peasants  that  my  friend  had  shown  me 
here,  and  the  many  more  in  Russia  who  lived  in 
darkest  poverty  —  White  Russians  and  Ukrainians, 
Tartars,  Finns,  Caucasians.  And  I  wondered 
what  these  elements,  clashing  one  upon  the  other, 
would  make  of  it  all  before  they  got  through.  The 
future  of  Great  Russia  was  wrapped  in  mysterious 
shadows. 


THE  VILLAGE  113 

Suddenly  from  up  the  river  a  watchman  who  was 
guarding  the  logs  sent  out  his  long  and  mournful 
cry.  It  was  taken  up  from  the  opposite  bank;  it 
was  echoed  by  a  voice  down  stream,  then  by  another 
farther  down,  and  so  traveled  away  in  the  heavy 
night. 


CHAPTER  III 


WHAT'S  a  village  without  a  "  general  store  "? 
The  hamlets  in  this  neighborhood  were  mere 
clusters  of  log  huts,  without  a  shop  of  any  kind; 
but  across  the  river,  about  a  mile  from  the  home  of 
my  friend,  was  a  much  larger  village  where  centered 
the  district's  social  life. 

Our  first  visit  there  I  remember  well.  From  our 
side  of  the  river  we  ferried  across  in  a  leaky  old 
boat  which  we  rowed  ourselves.  The  ferryman  kept 
half  a  dozen  such  dories  moored  at  a  rude  little  pier 
by  his  hut.  We  paid  him  our  fare  of  a  few  kopecks 
each,  and  rowing  across  to  the  village  wharf  we 
climbed  up  the  river-bank  and  so  came  to  the  village 
street.  It  was  very  wide  and  very  short,  and  was 
covered  deep  with  limestone  dust.  Most  of  the 
houses  were  log  affairs,  one  and  a  half  or  two  stories 
high.  We  went  first  into  the  post-oflice,  a  large  bare 
room  with  a  high  counter  which  was  glass  enclosed 
at  one  end.  The  Czar's  picture  had  been  torn  from 
the  wall,  and  in  its  place  hung  a  big  red  poster  of  a 
Russian  soldier  fighting.  Underneath  were  the 
words,  "  Fight  till  Victory."  This  was  one  of  the 
many  appeals  for  the  new  Russian  Liberty  Loan, 

114 


THE  VILLAGE  115 

sent  out  to  all  the  villages  by  the  Kerensky  Govern- 
ment. Here,  the  glum  postmaster  told  us,  it  had 
met  with  little  response. 

"  There  have  been  so  many  loans,"  he  said. 
"  The  peasants  are  sick  of  paying,  paying.  All  their 
lives  they  have  done  nothing  else.  They  want  a 
rest  from  taxes  now." 

He  turned  back  to  a  ledger  in  which  he  was  writ- 
ing. Plainly  he  did  not  care  to  talk.  So  we  left 
him,  went  down  to  the  street  and  entered  the  general 
store  nearby.  It  was  full  of  grocery  odors.  There 
were  a  few  tin  canisters  of  tea  and  other  groceries, 
and  boxes  of  potatoes,  tomatoes,  beans  and  cucum- 
bers. In  the  one  glass  show-case  was  a  very  meager 
array  of  thread  and  pins  and  needles,  and  a  few 
other  odds  and  ends,  including  a  little  candy  and 
packages  of  cigarettes.  The  woman  in  charge  did 
not  seem  to  be  worried  over  the  fact  that  her  shelves 
were  so  bare.  She  had  still  a  few  bales  of  calico 
prints.  These,  she  said,  were  the  last  of  her  stock, 
which  she  had  procured  two  months  ago  when  she 
went  to  Petrograd. 

"  I  bought  all  I  could  lay  my  hands  on,"  she  said, 
"  for  I  saw  what  was  coming.  Now  I  can  get  hardly 
anything  more.  But  why  worry?  "  she  added,  with 
a  shrug.  "  One  has  to  change  one's  ways,  that  is 
all."  And  she  pointed  up  to  the  big  brown  beams 
under  her  low  ceiling.  From  two  of  them  hung 
coarse  woolen  mits  of  all  sizes,  some  white  and  others 
brown.     "  The  peasants  spun  that  wool  themselves," 


ii6  THE  VILLAGE 

she  continued  quietly.  "  I  have  two  or  three  women 
friends  among  them,  and  we  are  planning  to  do  a 
good  deal  of  this  work  when  the  winter  comes. 
When  the  government  agents  arrive,  we  hide  the 
few  sheep  that  are  left  in  the  woods.  For  I  say  if 
the  cities  can  give  us  nothing,  we  will  at  least  keep 
what  is  ours.  With  that  we  shall  manage  to  get 
along  until  life  is  better  in  Russia." 

A  stout  peasant  woman  came  in  just  then,  with  a 
sack  of  potatoes  in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  pack- 
age of  wool.  The  wool  and  potatoes  were  carefully 
weighed,  and  there  was  much  discussion.  The  store- 
keeper took  a  small  ax  from  the  wall,  and  going  to  a 
corner  where  stood  a  huge  block  of  sugar  about  two 
feet  high,  she  eyed  it  for  a  moment  and  then  cau- 
tiously chipped  off  a  chunk.  This  she  weighed  and 
chipped  again.  What  was  left  she  wrapped  in 
brown  paper;  and  this,  together  with  a  small  package 
of  tea  and  a  paper  of  pins  and  needles,  she  handed 
to  her  customer,  in  return  for  the  potatoes  and  wool. 
No  money  had  passed  between  them.  Just  plain  old- 
fashioned  barter  here. 

After  the  customer  had  gone,  there  was  an  awk- 
ward moment.  For  Tarasov  and  I  were  out  forag- 
ing; we  were  sorely  in  need  of  a  loaf  of  bread,  tea, 
butter,  jam  and  potatoes.  We  eyed  the  storekeeper 
uneasily.     Then  Tarasov  forced  a  smile. 

"  Although  we  have  nothing  but  money,"  he  said, 
"  if  you  will  be  so  good  and  kind  as  to  let  us  have 
some  provisions  — " 


THE  VILLAGE  117 

The  woman  smiled  good-naturedly: 

"  Juvenale  Ivanovitch,"  she  replied,  "  was  not 
your  father  always  doing  kind  things  for  my  family? 
Surely  I'll  take  your  money  now." 

And  she  did  —  she  took  a  lot  of  it.  But  grate- 
fully gathering  in  the  provisions  we  said  good-by 
and  started  home. 


On  another  day  we  stopped  in  for  lunch  at  a  *'  tea 
house  "  or  restaurant  which  occupied  one  of  the 
four  main  corners  on  the  village  street.  It  had  a 
few  sleeping  rooms  above,  for  the  use  of  post-road 
teamsters.  In  the  dining-room,  which  was  far  from 
clean,  we  found  three  or  four  peasants  at  tables 
making  a  meal  of  tea  and  bread.  The  proprietor, 
a  quiet  man,  had  long  been  a  friend  of  Tarasov's. 
About  fifty  years  old  and  of  medium  size,  he  was 
dressed  in  gray,  with  a  bright  blue  shirt.  He  had  a 
scraggy  blond  mustache,  high  cheek  bones,  a  strong 
steady  face  and  one  glass  eye  which  gave  him  rather 
a  stony  expression.  He  took  us  into  his  living-room, 
which  was  deliciously  cool  and  clean.  The  walls 
and  low  ceiling  were  plastered  in  gray;  at  the  win- 
dows were  white  curtains,  and  a  heavily  curtained 
bed  stood  over  in  one  corner.  He  spread  the  small 
table  with  a  clean  cloth ;  and  after  serving  us  luncheon 
there,  he  sat  down  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

The  talk  soon  turned  to  the  question  of  how  to 
get  food  supplies  from  the  peasants  and  of  how  to 


ii8  THE  VILLAGE 

get  goods  from  the  towns.  He  was  one  of  the  local 
supply  committee.  The  chairman,  he  informed  us, 
was  the  former  starosta  (village  elder)  ;  the  secre- 
tary was  a  young  student,  the  illegitimate  son  of  the 
mid-wife;  and  there  were  four  peasant  members  be- 
sides. The  committee  had  control  of  the  work  in 
thirty-nine  villages,  Including  the  little  hamlets  up 
near  Tarasov's  farm. 

"  In  each  village  we  have  a  peasant,"  he  said, 
"  who  brings  us  a  report  every  week  of  what  grain 
and  fodder  his  neighbors  have.  But  the  reports  are 
all  the  same.  The  peasants  will  not  give  up  their 
grain  until  they  can  get  real  goods  in  trade;  and  as 
yet,  we  can  get  so  few  goods  from  the  towns  that 
we  cannot  persuade  the  peasants  to  take  their  grain 
out  of  their  barns. 

"  The  only  hope  that  I  can  see  is  in  our  Coopera- 
tive here.  Our  cooperative  store  has  still  quite  a 
stock  of  goods,  and  the  steadier  peasants  all  belong. 
We  have  eighteen  hundred  members  now.  Each 
paid  five  roubles  to  buy  a  share.  There  were  six 
thousand  purchasers  last  year;  and  because  we  charge 
higher  prices  to  outsiders  than  to  members,  so  many 
more  peasants  wish  to  join  that  we  are  almost  ready 
to  announce  a  second  issue  of  stock.  Last  year  the 
daily  turn-over  was  twenty-five  hundred  roubles. 

"  Of  course,  our  progress  has  been  blocked  by 
the  war  and  the  revolution.  Goods  have  gone  up 
to  ruinous  rates.  Already  we  are  nearly  out  of 
horseshoes,  axes,  harrows,  plows.     Last  spring  we 


THE  VILLAGE  119 

had  not  plows  enough  to  do  the  needed  plowing, 
and  that  is  why  our  crop  is  short.  There  is  not 
enough  rye  in  the  district  to  take  us  through  the  win- 
ter, let  alone  to  feed  the  towns.  And  so  the  town 
people  will  starve  for  awhile  —  and  sooner  or  later, 
I  suppose,  they  will  finish  with  their  wrangling,  start 
their  mills  and  factories,  and  turn  out  the  plows  and 
tools  we  need. 

"  Our  Cooperative  is  even  now  preparing  for  that 
time  ahead.  We  are  not  only  growing  here  but  we 
are  getting  in  closer  touch  with  other  societies  like 
ours.  We  have  already  joined  the  Union  of  Coop- 
eratives. In  every  province  in  Russia  there  is  such  a 
Union;  and  the  Unions  get  big  credits  from  the  Peo- 
ple's Bank  in  Moscow,  which  is  like  a  mother  of 
them  all.  The  Unions  have  altogether  more  than 
thirteen  million  members  now.  So  we  are  no  small 
affair.  We  are  a  power  in  Russia  to-day;  and  even 
bad  as  things  may  be,  our  mother  Bank  in  Moscow 
is  already  planning  to  send  relief.  Through  credits 
advanced  to  us  from  that  Bank,  our  Union  in  this 
province  is  building  some  big  flour  mills,  in  order 
to  keep  the  whole  grain  business  in  our  hands. 
More  and  more  we  peasants  will  control  the  food 
supplies  of  the  country. 

"  The  revolution  keeps  breaking  In,  for  the  hooli- 
gans are  always  trying  to  make  our  peasants  riot 
here.  At  the  start,  the  peasants  chose  me  as  head 
of  our  militia  police.  I  took  as  my  assistant  the  man 
who  keeps  the  cooperative  store ;  and  from  the  revo- 


120  THE  VILLAGE 

lutionary  committee  of  the  district  we  got  two  swords 
and  two  revolvers  —  not  very  much  for  an  army  — 
but  we  managed  to  keep  the  peace  until  about  three 
weeks  ago,  when  a  mob  of  peasants  and  hooligans 
tried  to  break  into  the  store.  We  stood  in  front  and 
kept  them  off  —  while  they  buzzed  and  talked  and 
shouted. 

"  '  This  Is  a  very  bad  business,'  we  told  them. 
'  You'd  better  go  home  and  keep  the  peace.'  And 
most  of  the  older  peasants  went  home.  But  the 
younger  ones  decided  to  raid  the  house  of  your  neigh- 
bor, Prince  C.  As  you  will  remember,  some  years 
ago,  by  order  of  the  government  the  Prince  had  been 
appointed  the  honorary  chairman  and  treasurer  of 
the  Cooperative.  And  last  winter,  when  the  time 
came  to  pay  to  us  a  dividend,  the  Prince  had  in- 
sisted on  using  the  money  instead  to  build  here  a 
People's  House  with  a  moving  picture  show.  The 
peasants  had  been  enraged  at  the  scheme  because  it 
was  done  without  their  consent.  So  now  they  de- 
cided to  search  his  house  and  go  through  his  account 
books.  There  were  nearly  six  hundred  there  in  the 
street,  all  shouting  and  working  themselves  up.  It 
was  an  ugly  business.  I  tried  to  talk  sense  into  them 
and  show  them  how  crazy  was  their  plan. 

"  '  What  can  you  do,'  I  shouted,  '  if  you  all  rush 
into  the  Prince's  house  ?  Suppose  you  get  his  papers. 
How  can  you  understand  them  ?  Brothers,  you  must 
all  wait  here  and  let  the  storekeeper  and  me  go  up 
and  talk  this  out  with  the  Prince.     For  we  are  used 


THE  VILLAGE  121 

to  such  things  as  accounts,  and  we  will  bring  you  back 
the  truth.' 

"  But  one  young  peasant  shouted  at  me,  *  You  fel- 
lows know  too  much  of  accounts!  You  are  merch- 
ants! We  want  none  of  your  tricks!  Now  it  is 
revolution  and  we  will  do  these  things  ourselves !  ' 

*'  So  off  they  rushed  like  a  herd  of  young  bulls. 
But  it  took  a  long  time  to  get  them  all  into  boats 
and  across  the  river;  and  after  that,  when  they  had 
climbed  the  long  hill  and  walked  a  mile  in  the  rain, 
by  the  time  the  first  ones  reached  the  place,  they 
were  cooled  off  and  they  waited  around.  At  last, 
when  the  others  had  come  up,  they  broke  into  the 
house  and  went  through  his  rooms  till  they  found 
his  desk,  and  from  this  they  took  out  all  the  papers. 
They  brought  them  back  to  the  village,  and  here  all 
night  they  shouted  and  argued  and  tried  to  make 
something  out  of  it  all.  But  the  columns  of  figures  in 
those  accounts  were  as  mysterious  to  them  as  the 
spells  of  the  village  sorcerer.  By  morning  these 
fine  revolutionists  had  their  tongues  hanging  out  of 
their  mouths.  They  slept  all  day,  and  that  was  the 
end  of  the  only  riot  we  have  had  here. 

"  But  there  is  always  danger  still  from  these 
chaps;  and  the  soldiers  fro.m  the  towns  are  always 
looking  for  trouble.  The  troops  who  come  home 
from  the  front  on  leave  are  different,  they  are  a 
steady  crowd  —  but  these  fellows  who  have  been 
loafing  in  towns  are  nothing  but  bums  and  robbers. 

"  Last  week,  three  soldiers  came  into  my  tea-room. 


122  THE  VILLAGE 

Two  of  them  were  older  men,  a  fairly  steady  looking 
pair;  but  one  was  a  thin  youngster  and  he  had  uneasy 
eyes.  I  knew  him  at  once  for  a  barracks  bum.  He 
came  into  my  place  with  his  cap  on.  He  gave  me 
no  '  Good  morning.'  Just  threw  his  money  on  the 
table. 

"  '  Tea,'  he  said.  I  took  no  notice.  A  woman 
came  in,  and  1  served  her  first.  He  looked  up  and 
scowled  at  her.  Then  I  brought  tea  and  bread  and 
eggs  to  the  two  older  soldiers.  The  youngster 
scowled  again  and  asked,  '  Don't  you  understand 
what  that  means?  '     He  pointed  to  his  money. 

"  '  Of  course  I  don't,'  I  answered.  He  jumped 
up  and  his  face  got  red. 

"  '  Now  I'll  give  you  a  lesson!  '  he  cried.  But  I 
said, 

"  '  I  will  do  it  first.  And  the  lesson  you  need  is 
this.  When  you  enter  a  tea-room,  take  off  the  cap 
from  your  empty  head,  and  don't  throw  down  your 
money  as  though  you  owned  me  like  a  slave.  You 
think  that  you  can  make  me  feel  that  you  are  a  brave 
soldier  and  I  am  only  a  muzhik.  But  I  know  you 
are  only  a  loafer,  my  friend.  All  day  long  In  Pet- 
rograd,  you  walk  about  eating  sunflower  seeds  and 
spitting  them  out.  Instead  of  defending  your  coun- 
try, you  have  spit  all  over  it.' 

"  The  fellow  kept  glaring  at  me.  '  You  don't 
mean  to  give  me  tea  ?  '  he  demanded. 

"  '  Of  course  not,'  I  answered  him.  '  Go  back  to 
Petrograd,  my  boy,  and  tell  your  young  friends  how 


THE  VILLAGE  123 

to  behave.  If  you'll  stop  attacking  sunflowers  and 
go  and  kill  a  few  Germans  instead,  you  may  grow 
up  to  be  a  man.' 

"  The  lad  looked  at  his  older  comrades  for  help, 
but  they  grinned  at  him  and  chuckled,  because  they 
knew  that  I  was  right.  So  he  had  to  sneak  out  of 
the  tea-house." 

Our  host's  glass  eye  was  solemn  enough,  but  the 
other  one  twinkled  as  he  talked.  Now  he  lit  a  fresh 
cigarette  and  went  on  in  a  more  serious  tone : 

"  The  trouble  is  that  men  like  me  have  no  guns 
behind  us,  and  so  It  Is  hard  to  keep  order.  The 
new  government  In  Petrograd  does  not  give  us  any 
support.  They  allow  only  two  militia  men  here  to 
keep  order  In  thirty-nine  villages.  We  should  have 
at  least  fifty  armed  men.  We  should  have  tele- 
phones, besides,  to  every  little  village,  and  a  police- 
man In  each  one;  and  we  should  have  two  or  three 
automobiles  for  bringing  them  all  together  at  once 
to  any  spot  where  they  are  needed.  As  It  Is,  the 
young  river  hooligans  steal  horses  and  cattle  —  and 
what  can  we  do?  Besides,  if  we  had  a  telephone, 
when  a  fire  broke  out  in  a  village  they  could  send 
a  call  for  help.  As  it  Is,  if  a  village  starts  to  burn, 
there  Is  nothing  to  do  but  pray  to  God. 

"  Three  months  ago,  all  the  militia  heads  like  me 

were  told  to  come  to  B (the  chief  city  of  the 

province)  and  listen  to  a  fine  address  by  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Zemstvo  there,  who  would  tell  us  poor 
peasants  what  to  do.     So  we  gathered  from  all  over 


124  THE  VILLAGE 

the  Province,  and  one  after  another  we  came  Into 
the  big  hall  —  a  very  handsome  place  it  was  — 
where  the  old  Zemstvo  used  to  meet.  Our  meeting 
had  been  called  at  four.  We  looked  at  the  clock, 
the  hour  had  come,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  a  meet- 
ing. Only  some  girl  typewriters  and  a  few  young 
clerks  to  be  seen.  No  one  paid  any  attention  to  us, 
nor  did  they  answer  our  questions.  At  last  I  called 
out,  '  Wc  had  better  go  home.'  At  that  a  clerk 
deigned  to  give  us  the  news  that  the  President  would 
be  with  us  soon.  So  we  waited  about  an  hour  more. 
Then  another  clerk  came  in  and  said, 

"  '  The  President  begs  me  to  bring  you  excuses. 
Unfortunately  he  is  busy  and  cannot  spare  time  for 
you  to-day.     But  his  assistant  will  speak  to  you.' 

"  In  came  a  young  assistant;  and  In  a  voice  as  sweet 
as  a  woman's  he  told  us  things  that  each  of  us  had 
known  since  we  were  little  brats,  about  being  good 
and  sensible.  In  our  villages,  he  said,  we  must  talk 
in  a  quiet  sensible  way  to  all  troublemakers,  and  ask 
them  to  be  patient,  and  so  prevent  all  riots  and  mobs. 
I  got  sick  of  his  talk. 

"  '  Now  then,  fellow,'  I  called  out,  '  for  Christ's 
sake  tell  us  something  real.  What  are  my  duties 
and  what  are  my  powers  as  head  of  militia?  There 
is  no  judge  in  my  neighborhood  now.  Am  I  to  be 
judge?  Some  peasants  have  come  with  their  quar- 
rels and  asked  me  to  judge  them.  Shall  I  do  it  or 
shall  I  not?  I  did  not  know,  so  I  did  it.  I  judged 
their  cases  as  best  I  could.' 


THE  VILLAGE  12s 

*'  Then  the  other  sixty  militia  heads  began  to 
speak  up,  one  by  one,  and  to  say  that  they  had  done 
the  same.  And  we  asked  the  young  assistant 
whether  it  was  legal.  But  he  confessed  he  did  not 
know.  He  went  to  get  the  President,  and  that  great 
official  now  deigned  to  come  in.  He  had  a  big  belly 
and  fat  wrists;  as  he  walked,  he  had  to  carry  four 
chins.  He  was  a  well-fed  gentleman.  Gold  spec- 
tacles were  in  his  hand.  He  looked  with  amusement 
at  us  and  said: 

"  '  Oh,  that's  all  right,  fellows.  Just  do  your 
best.'  He  walked  out  of  the  hall.  And  that's  all 
the  practical  information  we  ever  got  out  of  the 
town!  We  came  home  thanking  God  and  the 
Saints  that  we  had  been  born  in  villages  I 

"  Since  then  we  have  settled  things  for  ourselves. 
And  we  have  been  supported  by  all  the  more  sensible 
peasants  here.  Quietly  we  are  planning  things  out. 
We  have  made  up  our  minds  we  must  get  more  land 
and  also  better  farm  machines.  But  in  Petrograd 
they  only  talk,  and  God  knows  what  the  result  will 
be.  For  the  peasants  are  getting  so  sick  of  it  all. 
It  is  hard  to  hold  the  young  ones  in.  Soon  they 
may  join  the  hooligans  and  the  barracks  soldiers  in 
the  towns,  and  then  with  the  BolshevikI  they  may 
smash  the  government.  And  all  because  this  gov- 
ernment will  not  stop  its  empty  talk  and  give  us 
what  the  peasants  need !  This  fellow  Kerensky, 
they  tell  me,  is  a  well-meaning  honest  man,  and  a 
wonderful  speaker,  too.     When  he  speaks,  he  lifts 


126  THE  VILLAGE 

you  into  the  clouds.  But  the  clouds  are  a  very 
foggy  place  from  which  to  settle  the  question  of 
land. 

"  In  the  villages,"  he  concluded,  "  we  at  least 
have  done  our  part.  I  will  take  you  to  our  Co- 
operative now  and  show  you  how  the  peasants  have 
organized  to  buy  machines  and  all  the  other  supplies 
we  need,  as  soon  as  the  cities  can  get  them.  We 
have  done  it  quietly.  No  talk  or  gentleman's  plans 
in  books,  but  a  thing  that  has  grown  like  a  crop  of 
rye,  right  out  of  the  needs  of  the  people  themselves. 
And  I  tell  you  this  is  the  crowd  that  any  free,  sensible 
government  in  Russia  must  build  on.     You  will  see." 

3 

He  took  us  up  a  side  street,  and  crossing  by  an 
old  stone  bridge  a  creek  that  ran  into  the  river  under 
the  brow  of  a  rocky  cliff,  we  came  to  a  group  of 
three  or  four  small  brick  buildings.  High  above 
were  the  half-ruined  walls  and  turrets  of  a  mon- 
astery, one  of  the  ancient  fortresses  used  by  the 
Czars  of  olden  times  to  repel  invaders  from  the 
West.  Down  here  was  a  modern  invader,  and  one 
more  certain  to  supplant  the  old  autocratic  rule  — 
a  real  community  center,  owned  and  run  by  the  peo- 
ple themselves,  part  of  a  vast  and  intricate  system 
of  such  centers  all  over  the  land,  that  was  already 
affecting  the  lives  of  thirteen  million  families. 

We  entered  first  the  low  brick  building  which  was 
used   as   the   general   store.     Five   or   six   peasant 


THE  VILLAGE  127 

women  and  girls  were  gossiping  there  in  a  leisurely 
way  and  looking  over  some  calico  prints  and  rib- 
bons, two  small  babies'  caps,  a  blanket,  several  bot- 
tles of  "  pain  killer  "  and  various  kinds  of  groceries. 
It  was  a  kind  of  a  mothers'  club.  Behind  the  store 
was  a  row  of  log  sheds  for  the  more  bulky  articles. 
Here  were  sacks  of  seeds  of  all  kinds,  seeds  imported 
from  the  South  by  agricultural  experts  employed  by 
the  Cooperative  Union  of  the  Province  as  a  part  of 
their  campaign  to  promote  modern  farming.  There 
were  bags  of  fertilizer  and  some  barrels  of  cement. 
There  were  a  few  farming  implements,  too,  a  small 
harrow  and  two  plows.  Nearby,  in  a  larger  build- 
ing was  a  little  farmers'  bank  —  where,  if  a  peas- 
ant's assets  were  good,  he  could  get  cash  at  five  per 
cent,  and  three  months'  credit  on  goods  in  the  store. 
A  rear  room  was  being  used  by  the  local  food  sup- 
ply committee,  and  also  as  headquarters  of  the  new 
town  council.  The  Cooperative  had  seized  the 
chance  to  gather  in  unto  itself  the  revolutionist  gov- 
ernment here  and  steady  its  activities. 

On  the  walls  of  a  room  adjoining  were  charts 
and  pictures  showing  improved  agricultural  meth- 
ods and  demonstrating  the  rich  results.  In  crude 
and  vivid  chromos  were  shown  fields  of  oats  and 
wheat  and  rye,  first  under  the  old  cultivation  with 
the  resulting  meager  crops,  and  then  with  the  new 
methods  producing  double  or  treble  the  yield.  The 
same  was  shown  of  potatoes,  peas  and  beans,  to- 
matoes, cabbages  and  apples.     The  breeding,  hous- 


128  THE  VILLAGE 

ing  and  feeding  of  horses,  cattle,  pigs  and  sheep  was 
dealt  with  on  another  wall.  There  were  pictures 
of  hot-houses,  too,  and  of  farm  machinery,  includ- 
ing one  of  a  huge  plow,  In  early  spring,  clearing 
off  the  snow  from  a  field. 

The  largest  chromo  of  them  all  displayed  a  peas- 
ant family  before  and  after  joining  the  Cooperative 
Society.  They  were  shown  at  first  in  squalor  and 
filth  in  front  of  a  tumbled-down  old  hut;  the  women 
and  children,  the  horse,  the  cow  and  even  the  pig 
looking  puny  and  half-starved  to  death.  But  then 
behold  a  miracle  I  A  large  new  house,  a  stable  and 
barn,  a  new  plow  and  harrow,  two  stout  horses 
and  two  cows,  and  a  pig  fairly  beaming  with  content 
—  while  the  peasant,  his  wife  and  children,  all  ruddy 
with  health  and  in  brand-new  clothes,  smiled  on  their 
new  environment.  "  We  Have  Joined  the  Peas- 
ants' Cooperative  I  "  Over  this  picture  was  draped 
a  red  flag. 

4 
The  third  building  was  a  hospital.  Built  by  the 
Cooperative  some  three  years  before  the  war,  on 
the  ground  floor  there  had  been  a  dispensary  and 
clinic  for  mothers  and  children,  run  by  a  woman  doc- 
tor sent  out  from  Petrograd  by  a  mothers'  aid  so- 
ciety. The  hospital  was  empty  now,  for  in  the  sec- 
ond year  of  the  war  the  government  had  taken  it  for 
the  care  of  wounded  soldiers,  and  so  the  mothers 
and  children  had  been  left  to  shift  for  themselves. 
But  the  wounded  had  all  left;  and  having  thoroughly 


THE  VILLAGE  129 

cleaned  the  place,  the  Cooperative  was  looking  about 
for  another  doctor  and  a  nurse,  to  continue  the  work  • 
as  before. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  second  floor,  the  local  midwife 
had  been  installed.  She  used  two  rooms  for  her 
living  quarters;  and  the  other  two,  she  said,  were 
for  serious  maternity  cases.  Employed  by  the  Co- 
operative to  look  after  the  wives  of  its  members, 
she  charged  four  roubles  for  each  case,  which  at  that 
time  was  equivalent  to  a  dollar  in  our  money.  If 
the  patient  was  a  soldier's  wife,  the  charge  was  re- 
duced one  half.  The  midwife  was  a  genial  bright 
little  woman  of  middle  age,  with  quick  vigorous 
movements  and  a  humorous  turned-up  nose,  in  strik- 
ing contrast  to  her  voice,  which  was  a  deep,  sweet 
contralto.  In  her  small  sunny  room  there  were 
plants  in  the  windows,  gay  curtains  and  pictures  all 
about.  After  serving  us  tea,  preserved  cherries  and 
bread,  she  brought  out  her  cigarettes,  and  with  a 
contented  sigh  she  settled  down  for  a  good  Russian 
talk. 

Although  herself  a  peasant  who  had  always  lived 
in  this  neighborhood,  her  mind  seemed  roving 
over  the  world.  She  had  read  little,  apparently; 
I  saw  but  two  books  in  her  living-room,  and  both  of 
them  dealt  with  her  work.  But  she  asked  us  eager 
questions  not  only  about  Petrograd  but  about  Lon- 
don, Paris,  New  York.  With  her  head  resting  on 
one  hand  she  would  listen  intently,  and  once  she 
broke  in  with  a  smile  to  exclaim, 


130  THE  VILLAGE 

"Just  think!     A  real  American  here!  " 

She  talked  frankly  of  her  work,  narrating  how  In 
twenty  years  of  attending  peasant  women,  little  by 
little  she  had  picked  up  new  points  in  her  profession. 
She  had  never  lost  a  mother,  she  claimed.  The 
baby?  That  was  different.  One  could  not  expect 
to  save  every  child  in  such  homes  as  some  of  these 
women  had.     They  got  along  as  best  they  could. 

"  Sometimes  I  meet  a  patient  later.  '  Well,  what 
of  the  child?  '  I  ask  her.  She  answers,  '  It  lived,' 
or  else,  '  It  died.'  "  The  midwife  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "  But  there  are  wonderful  women  here; 
they  are  great  breeders,"  she  went  on.  "  They  will 
live  and  thrive  where  a  horse  would  die."  She 
smiled  as  she  lit  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"  Well,  since  the  revolution  has  come,  the  main 
difference  I  see  is  that  the  women  have  been  quite 
changed,  now  that  they  are  voters.  Their  husbands 
used  to  thrash  them  —  once  a  week  when  sober,  and 
more  often  when  they  were  drunk.  But  things  are 
very  different  now." 

Here  she  broke  off  for  a  moment  to  ask  if  the 
woman's  movement  in  England  had  been  stopped  on 
account  of  the  war.  When  she  heard  the  word 
"  suffragette,"  the  midwife  laughed  delightedly. 

"  That  was  the  word  I  heard  about!  I  was  try- 
ing to  remember!"  she  cried.  "Suffragette! 
Somebody  told  me  that  word  was  French,  and  means 
'  little  woman  voter.'  Well,  then,  let  me  tell  you 
that  there  is  nothing  little  about  our  peasant  women 


THE  VILLAGE  131 

here!  Now  each  one  on  Saturday  night  shouts  at 
her  man  when  he  comes  with  his  stick,  '  Just  you  try 
to  beat  me,  and  watch  how  I  will  spit  in  your  face !  ' 
That's  what  the  voting  has  done  for  her.  Besides, 
they  come  crowding  to  all  the  new  meetings  and  say, 
*  We  must  all  have  our  share !  In  this  new  land 
that  we  take  from  the  barins,  women  and  men  must 
count  alike  !  '  " 

Her  talk  was  Interrupted  by  the  coming  of  her 
son,  a  slim  and  wiry,  tow-headed  lad  about  twenty 
years  old,  dressed  in  a  student's  uniform.  The  fact 
of  his  illegitimate  birth  had  not  been  allowed  to 
shadow  his  life.  His  mother  had  sent  him  away  to 
school,  and  now  on  his  return  to  the  village  he  was 
a  recognized  leader  here.  Only  three  or  four  old 
dames  looked  askance  at  his  mother  and  himself. 
With  all  the  rest,  apparently,  their  social  status  was 
perfectly  good.  And  this  was  no  uncommon  case 
of  Russian  village  tolerance. 

The  boy  talked  eagerly  of  his  work  on  the  food 
supplies  committee,  and  of  how  he  was  trying  to  hold 
the  younger  men  in  the  village  in  line  and  keep  them 
from  rioting.  The  way  to  do  it,  he  explained,  was 
to  keep  things  humming.  Fun  was  a  good  safety 
valve.  One  week  they  would  get  up  a  picnic,  the 
next  an  amateur  play  In  the  school,  with  plenty  of 
refreshments  served.  He  was  starting  a  peasants' 
chorus  now.  The  last  play  in  the  school-house  had 
netted  seven  hundred  roubles,  he  said,  and  this  money 
was  to  be  used  to  buy  a  new  pump  and  hose  line  for 


132  THE  VILLAGE 

the  village  fire  brigade.  They  were  planning  to 
give  a  score  of  plays  during  the  coming  winter 
months. 

"  The  next  play  will  be  given  to-night,"  he  in- 
formed us,  "  and  the  proceeds  are  to  go  to  the  build- 
ing fund  for  the  new  People's  House  to  be  built  by 
the  Cooperative.  The  sooner  that  building  is 
started,  the  better  it  will  be  for  the  whole  revolu- 
tion here.  It  will  give  them  what  they  need^ — 
steady  work  and  wages  all  through  the  fall  and 
winter.  And  it  will  increase  our  power,  too,  for 
we  are  the  ones  to  give  out  the  jobs.  We  will  give 
the  jobs  to  the  steadier  crowd;  the  work  will  keep 
them  together ;  and  little  by  little  we'll  arm  them  all. 
Then  we  can  control  the  whole  neighborhood." 

"  In  the  meantime,"  said  his  mother,  smiling  at 
him  good-naturedly,  "  you  had  better  arm  your 
stomach,  my  boy." 

Hungrily  he  helped  himself  to  a  glass  of  tea,  and 
bread  and  cherries.  He  kept  on  talking  all  the 
while  of  what  they  would  do  in  the  People's  House. 
He  pointed  out  of  the  window  to  the  vacant  lot 
nearby,  where  the  foundations  were  already  laid. 

"  As  soon  as  we  build  the  first  floor,"  he  said, 
"  we  shall  turn  it  into  a  theater.  Give  the  people 
a  good  time  and  keep  them  out  of  trouble !  We 
must  start  giving  dances  there.  We'll  get  some  fel- 
low from  Petrograd  to  come  up  and  show  us  the 
new  steps.  We  want  nothing  out  of  date.  Then 
we  will  start  some  lectures,  too,  and  get  a  cinema 


THE  VILLAGE  133 

machine.  Perhaps  this  American  writer  will  tell 
his  friends  when  he  goes  home  to  send  us  all  the 
films  they  can,  for  it  will  do  our  peasants  good  to 
see  how  the  American  peasants  live.  Tell  him  to 
send  us  picture  books  showing  the  life  on  those  big 
farms  where  the  cows  herd  with  the  buffalo.  We 
cannot  read  the  English,  but  if  there  are  pictures 
enough  in  the  books  they  will  be  used  by  the  peasant 
till  every  page  is  as  dirty  as  the  Inside  of  a  stable!  " 
He  laughed.  "  We  will  put  these  books  in  the  read- 
ing-room, on  the  second  floor  of  our  People's  House. 
We'll  get  a  pile  of  Russian  books,  too.  But  tell  him 
if  they  do  not  send  us  books  about  America,  the 
Germans  will  send  us  wagon-loads  of  books  and 
films  and  pictures  to  show  how  good  their  country 
is,  and  what  a  kind  fellow  their  Kaiser  is!  That's 
the  way  with  those  devils!  " 

The  little  blue  clock  on  the  wall  struck  five.  He 
jumped  up  and  said  that  he  must  be  off  to  help  re- 
hearse the  company  for  the  play  at  the  school-house 
that  night.  He  urged  us  to  come,  and  we  promised 
that  we  would  surely  be  on  hand.  As  we  started 
home,  on  the  village  street  we  were  stopped  by  two 
pretty  girls  in  white  who  sat  at  a  table  In  front  of 
the  store,  selling  tickets  for  the  play.  We  went  on 
down  to  the  village  wharf,  and  found  a  crowd  of 
two  or  three  hundred  men,  women  and  children 
gathered  there  to  welcome  the  brass  band  of  the 
fire  brigade  in  the  district  town,  which  was  due  to 
arrive  on  the  steamer  soon  in  order  to  help  at  the 


7 


134  THE  VILLAGE 

play  that  night.  The  little  river  steamer  was  slowly- 
puffing  up  the  stream.  As  it  neared  the  wharf  we 
saw  the  band,  about  a  dozen  peasant  boys,  most  of 
them  youngsters  of  fourteen  in  blue  and  yellow  uni- 
forms. At  a  signal  from  their  leader,  up  went  their 
horns,  and  there  burst  forth  a  terrific  blaring  march. 
This  was  greeted  by  cheers  from  the  crowd,  and 
shouts  and  peals  of  laughter.  The  steamer  docked, 
and  the  band  marched  off  into  the  village,  with  the 
crowd  behind  them. 

As  I  turned  back  toward  the  river,  I  saw  Tarasov 
talking  with  a  rugged  little  man,  lean  and  wrinkled, 
elderly,  but  straight  as  a  post.  He  was  smiling  at 
the  crowd  with  quite  evident  delight.  He  had  a 
large  mouth,  an  enormous  nose,  gray  mustache  and 
receding  hairy  chin.  He  was  tanned  brown  from 
an  outdoor  life.  I  was  struck  at  once  by  his  vigorous 
pose  and  the  genial  fire  in  his  eyes. 

"  Half  his  life  he  was  the  school  teacher  here," 
Tarasov  explained  as  we  turned  away.  "  We  shall 
have  a  long  talk  with  him  —  many  talks,  for  his  home 
is  very  close  to  mine.  What  a  prophet  he  was,  what 
a  worker!  Look  at  that  school-house."  And  my 
friend  pointed  up  the  hill  to  a  large  three-story 
building  of  logs  which  dominated  the  neighborhood. 
"  He  worked  and  begged  for  over  ten  years  until 
he  got  that  school-house  built.  I  shall  show  it  to  you 
to-night.     But  now  we  must  be  going  home." 

From  the  wharf  we  clim.bed  down  into  a  dory, 
with  a  merry  looking  little  priest  who  was  dressed 


THE  VILLAGE  i35 

in  a  blue  woolen  gown.  He,  too,  was  a  friend  of 
Tarasov's  and  asked  us  to  come  and  visit  him  soon. 
While  they  talked,  I  sat  in  the  bow  of  the  boat.  It 
was  a  beautiful  sunset.  The  river  rippled  quietly. 
The  noise  of  the  band  had  died  away.  Here  and 
there  on  the  water  in  dug-outs  were  the  motionless 
figures  of  men  and  women  fishing  with  nets;  and 
down  through  this  small  fishermen  fleet  came  a  dory 
filled  with  rough-necks.  Two  or  three  were  soldier 
deserters;  the  rest  were  ragged  village  youths. 
Shouting  and  singing,  they  rowed  along,  and  disap- 
peared 'round  a  bend  in  the  river. 

Crossing  to  the  opposite  bank,  we  walked  a  mile 
to  Tarasov's  home. 

5 

In  the  small  garden  in  front  of  the  house  we  found 
Tarasov's  tenant,  the  heavy  feeble  gray  old  man, 
sitting  wrapped  in  a  blanket.  Beside  him  sat  the 
Finnish  girl,  reading  aloud  from  a  magazine.  As 
we  came  in  at  the  garden  gate,  she  looked  up  quickly 
with  a  smile  and  told  us  that  he  was  better  now. 
There  was  something  bright  and  appealing  about 
her.  Dressed  in  a  white  sailor  suit,  her  figure  was 
sturdy  as  a  boy's;  she  had  large  arms  and  shoulders, 
stocky  wrists  and  strong  brown  hands.  Her  flaxen 
hair  was  braided  tight,  coiled  'round  her  head.  Her 
face  was  deeply  pockmarked  or  she  might  have  been 
good  looking.  She  had  a  small  resolute  mouth, 
bright  gray  eyes  and  a  quick  eager  smile.     1  had 


136  THE  VILLAGE 

noticed  her  often  in  the  past  week.  Twice  I  had 
seen  her  in  the  garden  with  a  book  and  a  pad  of 
paper,  very  rapidly  making  notes;  and  from  her 
mother,  the  cook,  I  had  learned  that  the  girl  had 
finished  school  and  was  hoping  to  enter  a  woman's 
college  in  the  fall. 

"  Let's  take  her  to  the  play,"  I  suggested  to  Tara- 
sov  now.     And  he  assented  promptly. 

"  But  first,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  surely  take  some 
soap  and  towels,  and  go  down  to  the  river  and  have 
a  fine  swim  I  " 

He  took  his  safety  razor,  too,  and  persuaded  me 
to  try  it.  It  was  a  terrific  instrument.  Balancing 
on  a  huge  pine  log  that  kept  moving  in  the  current, 
I  mauled  and  gouged  my  tortured  face  —  while  as 
close  beside  me  as  they  could  get,  crouched  two 
naked  peasant  boys.  The  sun  had  set  and  the  air 
was  chill,  but  the  urchins  forgot  to  put  on  their 
shirts,  so  intent  were  they  in  watching  the  progress 
of  my  instrument.  I  finished  and  dove  into  the 
stream.  We  splashed  and  swam  about  for  a  time, 
then  dressed  and  went  up  again  to  the  house,  where 
the  Finnish  girl  had  supper  all  ready  on  the  table. 

She  was  dressed  to  go  to  the  play,  in  a  fresh 
white  skirt  and  sailor  blouse.  Through  the  open 
door  to  the  kitchen,  I  could  see  her  at  the  table  with 
the  two  young  daughters  of  the  lazy  peasant  next 
door.  Their  father,  who  was  czar  of  his  hut,  had 
not  allowed  them  to  go  to  school;  and  so  almost 
every  evening  they  came  in  here  to  the  kitchen,  where 


THE  VILLAGE  137 

for  two  hours  the  Finnish  girl  labored  to  teach  them 
to  read  and  write.  Now  we  proposed  that  her 
two  small  pupils  should  go  with  us  to  the  school- 
house  that  night.  At  once  there  was  intense  excite- 
ment, but  after  that  came  a  terrible  moment  —  for 
it  was  revealed  to  us  that  these  children  had  no  de- 
cent clothes.  Their  meager  cotton  dresses  were 
patched  and  torn,  and  far  from  clean.  Their  feet 
were  bare.  Obstinately,  almost  in  tears,  they  kept 
shaking  their  heads  and  swallowing  hard.  They 
refused  to  be  seen  in  such  clothes  at  the  school.  But 
the  Finnish  girl  soon  brought  them  around.  She 
sent  them  home  for  their  shoes  and  stockings,  and 
when  they  came  back  she  wrapped  them  in  her 
mother's  cloak  and  her  own.  So  we  started  down 
the  path. 

On  the  way  we  kept  meeting  peasants  from  the 
neighboring  hamlets,  men,  women  and  children, 
whole  families,  all  dressed  up  in  their  Sunday  clothes, 
white  frocks  and  flowered  kerchiefs,  the  girls  with 
ribbons  in  their  hair,  giggling  and  chattering.  Our 
two  small  companions  pressed  close  to  our  sides, 
with  their  borrowed  cloaks  wrapped  about  them 
tight.  They  seemed  to  thank  God  for  the  deepen- 
ing dusk.  Softly  but  quite  savagely  Tarasov  cursed 
their  father. 

Presently,  from  a  side  path,  the  old  school-teacher 
hove  into  view,  in  a  light  gray  suit,  with  a  Panama 
hat  tipped  well  back  with  a  festive  air,  while  his 
stout  wife  in  a  pearl  silk  dress  and  a  large  red  flow- 


138  THE  VILLAGE 

ered  hat  ambled  cheerfully  at  his  side.  On  her  big 
wrist  was  strapped  a  watch.  She  had  been  the  only 
child,  I  learned,  of  a  shrewd  and  thrifty  peasant, 
from  whom  she  had  inherited  about  a  hundred  acres 
of  land  and  eleven  thousand  roubles  in  cash. 

At  the  ferry,  quite  a  crowd  was  waiting,  while 
boat  after  boat  was  filled  and  pushed  off.  We  took 
our  turn  and  ferried  across,  went  on  through  the  vil- 
lage and  up  a  long  winding  road  on  the  hillside. 
Now  it  was  dark.  Above  us  the  great  log  school- 
house  poured  light  from  its  three  tiers  of  windows, 
and  as  we  drew  nearer  we  could  hear  a  merry  hub- 
bub there.  Suddenly  with  a  discordant  crash  the 
band  of  the  fire  brigade  broke  loose.  We  found 
them  standing  on  the  steps  blowing  away  for  dear 
life.  Three  small  urchins  stood  in  front,  cheeks 
bulging  as  they  strained  for  wind  with  a  fierce  sol- 
emn pride  in  their  eyes,  while  a  score  of  village 
youngsters  stood  watching  them  with  envy. 

Before  the  entertainment  began,  Tarasov  showed 
me  through  the  school.  Built  only  a  few  years  be- 
fore, the  air  still  bore  the  fresh  smell  of  the  logs, 
and  the  walls  were  as  yet  unplastered.  Enormous 
beams  ran  overhead,  supporting  the  high  ceilings. 
There  were  huge  tile  stoves,  and  the  rooms  were 
immense  with  generous  windows.  There  seemed  to 
me  to  be  room  enough  for  twice  the  number  of  chil- 
dren that  I  had  seen  in  the  neighborhood. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Tarasov.  "  That  was  the  old 
teacher's  plan  —  to  have  plenty  of  room  —  more 


THE  VILLAGE  139 

than  enough.  '  They  live  in  cramped  little  huts,'  he 
would  say.  '  Here  I  want  it  to  be  immense. 
Plenty  of  space  and  sunshine,  air.  A  place  where 
the  soul  of  a  child  can  expand.'  That  is  the  kind  of 
a  man  he  was.  He  shall  tell  you  all  about  it  him- 
self, his  dream  of  what  a  school  should  be." 

We  went  up  the  crowded  stairs  to  the  main  hall 
on  the  third  floor,  where  a  rough  stage  had  been  im- 
provised. The  benches  were  already  filling,  for  the 
play  was  soon  to  begin.  We  paused  in  an  adjoining 
room  before  a  long  refreshment  buffet,  where  a  row 
of  smiling  village  girls  were  busy  serving  to  custom- 
ers tea  in  glasses,  home-made  cake,  candy,  sand- 
wiches and  tarts.  We  purchased  candy  for  our 
guests.  They  had  been  awkward  and  shy  until  now, 
but  the  sweets  helped  considerably.  We  hurried 
back  to  get  a  place,  for  a  stout  old  peasant  had  ap- 
peared, ringing  an  enormous  bell.  We  seated  our- 
selves on  a  bench,  and  over  the  heads  before  us  we 
could  see  the  same  old  man  carefully  placing  a  row 
of  lamps  as  footlights  along  the  front  of  the  stage. 
He  placed  a  plank  before  them,  to  keep  the  light  out 
of  our  eyes.  Each  moment  the  crowd  grew  denser. 
Some  fidgety  woman  had  insisted  that  the  big  window 
near  us  be  shut,  and  the  air  was  becoming  very 
close.  I  watched  the  stolid  faces  around  me,  and 
the  expectant  gleaming  eyes.  On  the  bench  in  front 
of  us  was  the  foreman  of  the  river  gang,  in  whose 
hut  we  had  had  Sunday  dinner.  He  was  here  with 
his  wife,  his  niece  and  her  baby,  who  was  fast  asleep. 


I40  THE  VILLAGE 

Some  other  families  sat  together,  but  more  often  the 
girls  and  boys  were  herded  in  groups  in  corners  or 
sat  In  giggling  whispering  rows.  In  the  midst  of 
the  crowd,  close  by  me,  in  his  light  blue  uniform,  I 
saw  a  Hungarian  soldier.  He  did  not  look  like  a 
prisoner  here.  There  were  four  or  five  in  the  vil- 
lage, I  learned,  and  they  were  quite  free  to  go  about. 

Again  the  big  bell  jangled.  Slowly  the  curtain 
rose,  with  jerks,  and  revealed  a  living-room  In  the 
house  of  a  small  town  merchant.  It  was  one  of  the 
old  Russian  classics  by  Ostrovsky.  I  could  catch 
the  lines  only  here  and  there,  just  barely  enough  to 
follow  the  story,  which  was  one  of  comedy  satire  on 
the  petty  bourgeois  life  In  a  town  of  Southern  Russia. 
But  In  deepening  surprise  I  watched  these  village 
players  and  the  spell  that  they  were  casting.  Like 
most  amateurs,  they  dragged  their  lines;  but  It  was 
just  this  leisurely  art,  this  lack  of  all  Impatience  for 
having  anything  happen,  this  deep  and  delighted  ab- 
sorption in  the  characters  themselves,  which  was 
creating  this  atmosphere,  holding  this  peasant  audi- 
ence, of  which  the  players  were  a  part.  There 
would  be  a  tense  silence,  then  a  quick  laugh. 

I  thought  of  a  certain  village  at  home,  and  of  a 
performance  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  I  had  seen. 
What  a  difference  here  I  No  little  Evas,  no  Le- 
grees,  no  floating  cakes  of  Ice,  no  thrills.  These 
Russian  peasant  players  were  giving  a  picture  of 
country  life  simply  and  profoundly  real  —  and  the 


•  THE  VILLAGE  141 

audience  was  satisfied.  For  a  time  I  lost  the  drift 
of  the  play  and  sat  there  in  the  darkness,  watching 
the  rows  of  faces  and  those  shining  motionless  eyes. 
I  remembered  the  war.  It  seemed  far  away.  So, 
too,  the  revolution.  I  was  down  in  the  deep  waters 
of  Great  Russia's  mighty  life.  And  I  fell  to  dream- 
ing for  awhile  of  some  tremendous  friendship  which 
might  still  come  out  of  this  blood-stained  land.  I 
thought  of  my  country  and  Russia,  of  how  it  would 
be  if  they  were  friends.  I  thought  of  their  villages 
and  ours,  at  present  in  such  different  worlds.  But 
I  thought  of  all  we  could  get  from  each  other.  .  .  . 

Now  it  was  eleven  o'clock  and  they  had  just  fin- 
ished the  second  act.  In  the  audience  not  only  the 
babies  but  many  small  children  were  asleep.  The 
older  children  and  parents  alike  seemed  determined 
to  stay  till  the  end.  But  the  room  was  stifling,  we 
were  weary,  and  we  decided  to  start  for  home. 

Outside,  on  the  winding  country  road,  although 
the  sky  was  filled  with  clouds  there  was  still  a  curi- 
ous dim  light,  for  a  Russian  summer's  night  knows 
little  of  the  darkness.  In  the  village  we  stopped 
for  a  moment  at  the  cooperative  store  to  get  some 
fresh  butter  and  black  bread.  The  little  place  was 
silent  and  dark,  for  the  storekeeper  was  still  at  the 
play;  but  our  bread  and  butter,  stoutly  wrapped, 
had  been  left  high  up  on  a  window-sill  out  of  the  way 
of  hungry  dogs.  I  looked  at  the  foundation  of  the 
People's   House   close   by.     Soon   there   would   be 


142  THE  VILLAGE 

"  movies  "  here,  and  I  wondered  what  effect  this 
would  have  on  the  school-house  play  we  had  seen 
that  night. 

We  went  down  to  the  river,  climbed  into  a  dory, 
and  I  rowed  our  party  across.  Out  there  it  was 
mysterious,  fresh  and  cool  but  very  still.  We 
passed  two  shadowy  figures,  a  man  and  a  woman  in 
dug-outs  with  a  fishing  net  between  them.  How  far 
away  from  Petrograd!  I  remembered  what  Tara- 
sov  had  said  about  this  murmuring  water,  how  it 
flowed  into  a  large  deep  lake  with  such  a  configura- 
tion of  currents  that  it  stayed  there  many  years, 
and  then  flowed  on  to  Petrograd.  I  recalled  the 
sluggish  city  canals  under  the  bridges  of  the  streets 
where  I  had  heard  the  rattle  of  shots  from  the  ma- 
chine guns.  That  sluggish  water  had  once  been 
here !  How  had  this  village  appeared  in  those 
days?  And  when  this  quiet  water  which  was  so 
softly  rippling  against  the  sides  of  our  dory  now, 
should  at  last  reach  the  city  of  Petrograd,  what 
would  be  there?  What  kind  of  a  city?  What 
changes  would  have  been  wrought  by  then  in  the 
Russian  nation  and  throughout  the  world? 

6 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  we  started  off 
through  the  fields  toward  home.  On  the  way  Tara- 
sov  remembered  that  we  were  out  of  matches,  and 
he  dropped  in  to  borrow  some  at  the  home  of  a 
peasant  friend.     It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  but 


THE  VILLAGE  143 

from  a  hut  just  up  the  road  light  streamed  from  two 
little  windows,  and  I  could  hear  an  accordion  there 
and  a  hubbub  of  girls'  voices.  The  music  stopped 
in  a  burst  of  laughter,  the  door  of  the  hut  was  thrown 
open  wide,  and  a  half  dozen  chattering  girls  came 
out  and  scattered  down  the  road.  Slowly  their 
voices  died  away.  Looking  over  the  rolling  fields 
I  could  see  one  tiny  light  twinkling  in  the  distance 
out  of  the  edge  of  a  shadowy  wood,  and  to  my  ears 
across  the  meadows  came  a  man's  voice  singing. 

Tarasov  returned  and  we  started  on.  The  two 
small  girls  who  walked  at  my  side  were  as  mute  and 
shy  as  at  the  start.  They  had  taken  off  their  shoes 
and  stockings  while  we  were  coming  across  the  river; 
and  with  the  borrowed  cloaks  on  their  arms  they 
pattered  along  in  their  bare  feet.  Tarasov  walked 
with  the  Finnish  girl;  and  with  the  curious  talent  he 
had,  of  always  drawing  people  out  by  his  fresh  and 
genuine  interest,  he  soon  had  her  talking  about 
herself.  Though  her  voice  was  low  it  was  so  clear 
that  walking  close  behind  them,  even  with  my  poor 
Russian,  I  could  get  snatches  now  and  then.  In 
speaking  of  the  play  that  night,  good-naturedly  she 
complained  of  the  way  they  had  let  the  action  drag. 
She  spoke  like  one  familiar  with  the  theater's  inner 
life,  and  Tarasov  found  that  she  had  worked  in  a 
theater  in  Finland.  Now  her  talking  grew  so  rapid 
that  I  could  not  make  out  a  word  —  but  when  we 
reached  home  he  told  me  her  story,  while  she  was 
starting  the  samovar. 


144  THE  VILLAGE 

"  She  is  a  wonderful  girl,"  he  declared,  t 
yawned  and  lit  a  cigarette.  I  was  used  to  such  be- 
ginnings, for  to  this  Russian  friend  of  mine  nearly 
every  one  was  wonderful. 

"  She  was  born  in  a  town  in  Finland,"  he  said,  "  I 
think  she  was  illegitimate.  The  mother  left  her 
baby  with  a  Lutheran  family  there  and  went  alone 
to  Petrograd,  where  she  became  cook  for  this  old 
man.  The  child  grew  up,  and  from  the  time  she 
was  eight  years  old  she  made  up  her  mind  to  be  a 
doctor.  She  worked  hard  in  a  Lutheran  school, 
and  all  went  well  with  her  for  a  time.  Then  the 
family  with  whom  she  lived  became  very  poor,  for 
the  man  ran  a  theater  in  the  town  and  it  was  not 
doing  well.  He  had  to  cut  down  his  employees, 
and  so  this  girl,  who  was  ten  years  old,  had  to  help 
usher  every  night.  But  then  came  a  long  secret 
struggle  with  her  conscience,  for  in  the  Lutheran 
school  she  attended  there  was  a  strict  rule  forbidding 
the  children  ever  to  enter  a  theater,  because  it  was 
a  sinful  place.  She  grew  nearly  sick  with  the  strug- 
gle she  had.  She  told  no  one.  It  grew  worse  and 
worse.  At  last  she  confessed  to  one  of  her  teach- 
ers; and  when  the  teacher  smiled  and  told  her  that 
it  was  all  right,  she  said  she  felt  such  a  wave  of  relief 
that  she  will  remember  it  all  her  life.  That  is  the 
kind  of  a  girl  she  is.  Her  face  —  you  can  see  how 
quiet  it  is,  but  there  is  passion  underneath. 

"  She  came  to  her  mother  in  Petrograd,  where 
this  old  man  ran  a   canning  factory.     He  was   a 


THE  VILLAGE  14S 

kindly  old  gentleman,  always  helping  people.  He 
had  a  habit  of  buying  new  clothes  for  any  man  or 
woman  or  child  whom  he  saw  ragged  on  the  streets. 
He  grew  interested  in  this  child,  with  her  strange 
desire  to  be  a  physician.  Strange?  No,  I  should 
not  call  it  that  —  for  the  thing  is  common  in  our 
land.  It  was  nearly  seventy  years  ago  when  Rus- 
sian girls  made  their  first  attack  to  get  into  the  med- 
ical profession.  Soon  they  were  clamoring  at  the 
doors  of  the  Medical  University.  They  were  re- 
fused. Women  doctors!  It  was  a  terrible  scandal 
then!  Some  of  the  girls  were  from  wealthy  homes, 
but  they  left  their  families,  lived  in  cheap  rooms, 
where  they  froze  and  starved,  reading  medical  books. 
Quite  a  few  of  them  killed  themselves.  In  the  end 
the  authorities  had  to  give  in.  Many  Russian 
women  are  like  that. 

"  But  to  return  to  my  story,  this  child  lived  in  the 
old  man's  house,  and  he  sent  her  to  a  good  private 
school.  He  became  to  her  like  a  grandfather. 
They  had  their  secrets  and  their  jokes.  Even  then, 
he  was  frightfully  stout;  and  when  he  took  her  on 
his  knee  to  tell  her  stories,  she  would  say,  '  Please  — 
couldn't  you  move  back  the  cushion?  '  And  with  a 
twinkle,  he  would  reply,  '  No,  my  child,  my  sins  are 
upon  me.  For  sixty  years  I  have  eaten  too  well, 
and  this  cushion  that  is  between  us  will  precede  me 
to  my  grave.'  At  first  she  was  a  sickly  child,  but 
he  put  her  under  a  doctor's  care  until  he  had  built 
up    her   health.     She    already    spoke    Finnish    and 


146  THE  VILLAGE 

Swedish;  and  later  in  a  higher  school  she  learned 
German  and  a  little  French.  There  she  won  a  schol- 
arship and  so  got  her  tuition  free.  Last  spring  she 
graduated  high,  and  passed  her  examinations  to  en- 
ter a  medical  school  for  girls.  But  now  when  she 
was  just  on  the  point  of  realizing  all  her  dreams, 
everything  has  been  overturned  —  for  the  revolu- 
tion makes  it  uncertain  whether  the  college  will  open 
or  not;  and  meanwhile  the  old  man  may  die,  and  she 
will  no  longer  have  his  aid.  She  is  a  plucky  young- 
ster, though.  You  see  how  steady  she  is  through  it 
all." 

When  she  came  in  with  the  samovar,  we  asked 
her  to  take  tea  with  us.  She  declined,  but  as  she 
stood  by  the  door  she  was  plainly  much  excited  still 
by  the  talk  she  had  had  with  Tarasov.  Again  he 
was  talking  to  her  now;  and  she  listened  to  him  in- 
tensely. Her  face  was  flushed,  her  speech  abrupt, 
and  so  rapid  that  I  could  barely  catch  the  drift  of 
what  she  was  saying. 

"  She  wants  to  be  a  nurse,"  said  my  friend.  "  I 
am  trying  to  argue  her  out  of  it,  but  the  war  is 
driving  this  girl  insane.  She  is  ashamed  for  Russia 
now.  She  feels  that  the  war  should  go  right  on 
and  that  she  must  do  her  part.  She  has  heard  of  the 
Women's  Battalion  of  Death.  She  says  she  must 
either  join  with  them,  or  be  ready  to  nurse  them 
when  they  are  wounded.  Look  at  her  —  what  a 
mixing  here  —  half  boy,  half  girl,  half  woman,  half 
child.     She  is  barely  seventeen  years  old.". 


THE  VILLAGE  i47 

He  urged  her  to  wait  for  the  medical  school, 
which  he  still  believed  would  open  that  fall.  He 
talked  to  her  of  a  doctor's  career,  but  she  interrupted 
sharply: 

"There  is  no  need  to  tell  me  that!  To  be  a 
doctor  is  what  I  have  wanted  ever  since  I  was  eight 
years  old.  But  what  can  I  do?  I  must  earn  my 
living.     Nobody  should  be  a  burden  now!  " 

"  You  can  easily  earn  your  living  in  Petrograd, 
these  days,"  he  said.  "  You  can  go  to  the  medical 
school  and  earn  your  expenses  by  work  outside. 
You  speak  Swedish,  and  there  are  many  rich  Swedes 
who  would  take  you  into  their  offices  and  pay  high 
wages  for  your  work." 

"  I  don't  want  their  pay!  "  she  cried  passionately. 
"Those  Swedes  are  for  Germany,  every  one  I  I 
tell  you  I  want  to  help  in  the  war !  I  am  tired  of 
being  off  on  one  side  when  such  terrible  things  are 
happening!  Suppose  I  grow  up  to  be  an  old 
woman?  How  horrible  it  would  be  to  look  back 
and  say,  '  I  was  young  at  a  time  like  the  French 
Revolution,  but  all  I  did  was  to  work  for  Swedes  — 
or  stay  in  a  nice  quiet  place  on  a  river!  '  I  have 
come  to  hate  this  place!  Here  the  people's  tongues 
and  ears  seem  shaped  for  petty  gossip!"  She 
stopped  abruptly,  breathing  fast. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Tarasov  quietly,  "  you  will  find 
gossip  everywhere  —  even  in  the  medical  school. 
But  I  advise  you  to  go  there  now  and  take  a  doctor's 
training." 


148  THE  VILLAGE 

"  That  means  three  years  of  my  life,"  she  said. 
He  smiled: 

"  Even  twenty  is  not  very  old." 

"  But  I  want  to  help  now,"  she  answered,  "  now 
in  the  war  and  the  revolution!  "  Tarasov  gave  a 
weary  shrug. 

"  There  will  be  plenty  of  time,"  he  said.  "  The 
war  and  the  revolution  will  not  be  settled  for  many 
years.  For  a  whole  world  is  fighting.  Humanity 
is  in  a  storm  that  will  not  settle  in  a  day.  As  time 
goes  on,  all  intelligent  men  the  world  over  will  see 
that  the  cause  of  freedom  is  centered  here.  Shall 
Germany  dominate  our  land?  If  she  does,  the  days 
of  Rome  are  back- — not  only  for  us  but  for  all 
Europe.     I  tell  you  the  struggle  will  last  for  years 

—  through   war   and  peace.     A   new   free    Russia 
must  be  built,  and  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  you 

—  plenty  of  work  for  doctors." 

Now  as  she  listened,  her  brown  hands  were  In- 
terlocked in  front  of  her.  Her  face  was  set,  and 
she  seemed  to  be  looking  sternly  ahead  into  the  work 
that  he  described. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  be  a  good  doctor." 

"Why  not?  "he  asked. 

"  I  am  not  strong  enough." 

"  You  look  strong,"  he  said.  But  the  girl  shook 
her  head  and  exclaimed  impatiently: 

"  Oh,  it  Is  easy  to  be  strong  in  such  a  simple  life 
as  this!  I  tell  you  I  know  what  lies  ahead.  In 
Russia  I  can  see  how  it  will  be.     The  life  of  a  doctor 


THE  VILLAGE  149 

will  be  hard.  I  have  dreamed  of  it  since  I  was 
eight  years  old.  In  every  dream  it  was  always  hard 
—  and  I  was  glad  it  would  be  like  that.  But  now  it 
will  be  harder  still.  And  I  don't  want  to  be  a  doc- 
tor now  unless  I  can  be  just  as  strong  as  a  man  — 
unless  I  can  work  day  and  night!  That  is  the  way 
we  will  have  to  work  to  build  the  new  free  Russia !  " 
She  paused  a  moment.  "  And  I  don't  know  —  I  am 
not  sure."  Her  voice  had  dropped :  "I  had  small- 
pox and  diphtheria.  It  left  me  deaf  in  one  ear.  It 
left  me  weak  in  many  ways." 

She  walked  abruptly  to  the  window,  then  returned 
to  her  place  by  the  door  and  seemed  to  listen  a  mo- 
ment.    The  small  log  house  was  very  still. 

"  I  haven't  talked  like  this  before  to  any  one,"  she 
said  huskily.      "  Please  don't  tell  my  mother." 

Tarasov  watched  her  steadily,  in  a  tense,  almost 
hypnotic  way.  "  My  girl,  you  need  not  worry. 
You  are  going  to  do  fine  work,"  he  said.  Her  eyes 
met  his  and  were  held  for  a  time,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  some  vital  force  were  passing  from  him  into 
her.  There  was  often  something  uncanny  to  me 
about  this  Russian  friend  of  mine.  She  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  smiled  and  said: 

"  Yes,  now  I  think  it  will  be  so." 

"  What  has  changed  you?  "  he  asked  her,  smiling 
back. 

You  have  made  me   remember,"    she   replied, 

that  I  have  been  lucky  all  my  life.  I  worry  hard 
—  but  things  come   right.  .  .  .  Long  ago  when  I 


ISO  THE  VILLAGE 

worked  at  the  theater  and  felt  I  was  damning  my 
soul  for  life,  then  came  the  teacher  smiling  and  tell- 
ing me  it  was  all  right.  And  so  it  has  been.  When 
I  dream  of  something  very  hard,  some  one  gives  it 
to  me.  Once  I  wanted  to  study  singing  —  and  I 
wanted  it  so  much  that  I  could  not  sleep  at  night. 
But  soon  a  fine  woman  came  to  me,  who  was  a  friend 
of  this  old  man,  and  she  gave  me  singing  lessons 
free.  I  wanted  to  learn  embroidery,  and  again  she 
helped  me  out."  Here  the  girl  gave  a  sharp  little 
laugh.  "  That  was  funny,"  she  said,  "  for  when  I 
learned,  soon  it  tired  me  to  death.  I  was  a  perfect 
failure  at  that !  .  .  .  But  in  the  school  in  Petrograd, 
again  I  was  lucky,"  she  went  on.  "  In  the  school- 
room that  first  day  I  could  speak  no  Russian. 
There  I  sat,  a  little  Finn  —  and  the  whole  room  was 
full  of  girls  who  could  speak  Russian  very  well.  I 
was  ready  to  sink  through  a  hole  in  the  floor !  But 
along  came  a  woman  teacher,  and  at  once  she  guessed 
my  thoughts  —  for  I  looked  at  her  with  such  pain 
in  my  eyes.  So  she  said,  '  Come  each  morning  at 
seven  o'clock,  and  I  will  teach  you  until  nine.'  She 
taught  me  for  two  hours  every  day  —  and  in  a  few 
weeks  I  could  speak  quite  well." 

Again  she  stopped.  The  smile  went  from  her 
face. 

"  That  is  the  way  It  has  been  In  my  life,"  she 
ended  in  a  resolute  tone,  "  and  that  is  the  way  it 
ought  to  be  with  every  child  in  Russia.  I  was  think- 
ing of  that  to-night  in  the  school-house.     Those  two 


THE  VILLAGE  151 

young  girls  that  we  took  along  —  how  happy  they 
were  !  What  couldn't  they  be  if  they  had  a  chance  ? 
They  must  have  a  chance !  This  lazy  peasant  father 
of  theirs  ought  to  be  punished  by  the  law.  They 
must  be  clothed  and  sent  to  school  I  Think  how 
ashamed  they  were  at  the  play.  It  was  so  hot  for 
all  of  us  there  —  and  twice  in  the  dark  I  loosened 
the  heavy  cloak  around  each  child,  but  in  a  minute 
they  wrapped  them  tight  to  hide  their  ragged  dresses. 
Each  one  of  them  was  bathed  in  sweat!  And  this 
is  not  right !  I  know  what  they  could  be  !  When  I 
teach  them  here  at  night,  I  look  at  their  eyes  and 
see  a  light  —  and  I  tell  you  that  is  the  light  we  need ! 
Every  child  must  have  a  chance !  Every  child  must 
be  lucky  —  get  what  they  want  —  have  light  in  their 
eyes!"  She  stopped  in  a  breathless  sort  of  way. 
"  I  can't  say  what  I  mean  —  but  I  know  very  well. 
We  must  have  a  new  life  in  Russia." 

She  stood  for  a  moment  longer  with  her  back 
against  the  door,  her  hands  behind  her  holding  the 
knob,  short,  sturdy,  her  strong  shoulders  squared, 
her  round  face  set  in  a  resolute  frown. 

Then  abruptly  she  turned  and  left  us. 


CHAPTER  IV 


^ '  T  WISH  you  had  seen  this  neighborhood  as  it 
X  looked  when  I  was  a  boy,"  Tarasov  said  to  me 
one  day,  "  the  poverty,  the  filthy  homes,  the  drunk- 
enness and  the  disease.  To  you  it  may  look  poor 
enough  still  —  but  if  you  had  been  here  in  those 
years,  you  would  realize  what  a  change  has  come. 
Whenever  I  get  discouraged,  I  think  of  two  men  and 
of  what  they  achieved.  One  was  the  old  school- 
teacher whom  we  met  the  other  night.  I  shall  take 
you  to  see  him  very  soon.  The  other  is  dead.  He 
was  the  priest.  He  was  not  like  most  village  priests 
■ —  for  as  a  rule  they  are  ignorant,  a  dull  reactionary 
lot.  He  was  a  most  wonderful  man.  I  shall  tell 
you  of  the  fight  that  he  made. 

"  But  first  I  must  give  you  some  idea  of  the  drunk- 
enness that  existed  here.  When  I  was  a  child,  over 
half  the  peasants  would  be  drunk  for  days  at  a  time. 
There  were  fights  along  the  river-front.  One  night- 
mare in  my  memory,  when  I  was  a  httle-boy,  was  of  a 
big  peasant  on  a  raft  smashing  out  the  brains  of 
another  with  a  club.  And  this  was  nothing  uncom- 
mon. Things  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse  —  till 
a  bottle  of  vodka  came  to  be  used  as  a  standard  unit 

152 


THE  VILLAGE  153 

of  value.  When  a  peasant  was  asked  what  a  job 
would  cost,  he  would  answer  not  in  roubles  but  in 
bottles  of  vodka.  If  there  was  none  to  be  had  in  the 
stores,  the  peasants  would  refuse  to  work;  but  when 
it  came,  there  would  be  a  rush  to  earn  money  to  buy 
drink.  Merchants  from  the  larger  towns  came  here 
with  carts  and  wagons  loaded  down  with  vodka,  and 
for  this  the  half-crazed  people  parted  with  their 
grain,  their  cows,  their  very  last  belongings. 

"  As  the  women  began  to  drink  with  the  men,  it 
caused  a  sex  promiscuity  that  spread  disease  at  a 
fearful  rate.  Many  children  were  born  idiots.  In 
the  village  down  by  the  river  where  we  went  the 
other  night,  there  were  almost  always  men  and 
women  and  boys  lying  drunk  in  the  ditches.  One 
day  the  small  steamer  was  just  leaving  dock,  and  a 
tipsy  peasant  boy  was  sitting  on  the  rail  at  the  stern, 
playing  a  harmonica.  He  lost  his  balance  and  in 
he  went.  On  the  wharf  stood  his  old  mother,  and  in 
her  piercing  voice  she  screeched: 

"'Brothers!  Hey  there  !  Save  the  watch !  He 
is  wearing  a  watch  that  cost  nine  roubles !  He  will 
go  down  and  stick  in  the  mud  —  and  the  watch  will  be 
lost !  Get  him  —  get  it  —  get  the  watch  !  '  And 
the  old  woman  filled  the  air  with  her  yells  until  they 
fished  him  safely  out.  Then  she  tried  to  beat  him, 
but  he  struck  out  and  knocked  her  down, 

"  In  the  winter,  every  week  or  two,  you  would 
hear  of  some  drunkard  frozen  to  death.  And  once, 
when  a  river  merchant  got  married  and  at  his  wed- 


154  THE  VILLAGE 

ding  the  vodka  flowed  free,  forty-six  peasants  lost 
their  Hves  —  for  winter  is  no  child's  play  here,  and 
one  must  not  fall  asleep  on  the  snow. 

"  After  a  Russian  holiday,  nearly  every  peasant's 
wife  would  have  a  black  eye  or  a  bruise.  There 
was  an  old  saying  among  them:  'He  has  had  a 
fine  holiday.  He  has  been  drunk  from  sunrise.' 
Toward  night  I  could  hear  them  coming  home,  men 
and  women,  singing  and  howling  like  gray  wolves. 
Then  in  the  dark  the  children  would  come  running 
to  my  house,  and  knock  softly  and  creep  in  and  crawl 
under  beds  or  into  the  closets.  There  they  would 
stay  till  the  yells  died  down  and  they  knew  that  their 
parents  were  asleep. 

"  You  often  saw  children  drunk  as  well.  Many 
of  the  mothers  put  vodka  into  their  babies'  milk. 
'  It  is  good  for  my  baby,'  one  woman  told  me.  '  See 
how  well  it  makes  him  sleep.'  Often  a  peasant 
mother  would  chew  a  mouthful  of  black  bread,  then 
take  it  out  and  soak  it  in  vodka  and  so  give  it  to 
her  child, 

"  I  remember  seeing  men  in  those  days  who  went 
about  wearing  nothing  but  shirts.  They  had  sold  or 
pawned  the  rest  of  their  clothes.  And  half-naked 
women,  too,  were  by  no  means  uncommon  sights. 
Anything  for  alcohol.  In  my  father's  studio,  which 
I  used  for  a  chemical  laboratory,  I  burned  wood 
alcohol  in  my  lamp.  One  day  when  I  was  out  of  the 
room,  two  peasants  drank  up  my  entire  can.  At  my 
rage  they  merely  chuckled  and  said,  '  Now,  brother, 


THE  VILLAGE  155 

we  will  go  to  sleep,  and  the  good  God  will  watch 
over  us.'  They  ambled  off  together  and  lay  down  in 
the  graveyard  of  the  church. 

"  So  much  for  the  good  old  vodka  days. 

"  Then  a  new  priest  came  to  the  village.  Sergei 
Gregorovitch  was  his  name.  He  had  been  educated 
in  a  church  school  in  Petrograd,  and  he  had  gradu- 
ated high.  But  then  he  had  made  a  great  mistake. 
For  it  was  a  common  custom  that  when  a  young  priest 
was  given  the  order  to  go  to  a  certain  village  parish 
and  start  by  assisting  the  local  priest,  he  should  first 
look  very  carefully  at  the  old  priest's  daughter;  and 
if  he  did  not  like  her,  he  should  transfer  to  another 
parish  where  there  was  a  prettier  girl.  For  the  best 
country  church  positions  were  commonly  given  as 
dowers  with  daughters  of  retiring  priests.  But  this 
Sergei  Gregorovitch,  a  week  after  his  graduation, 
very  rashly  married  a  friend  of  his  in  Petrograd,  a 
girl  without  a  kopeck.  And  so  his  chances  were  all 
spoiled.     His  superior  said  to  him  in  vexation: 

"  '  What  a  shame  this  is.  You  were  the  best  stu- 
dent here,  but  now  there  will  be  nothing  for  you 
except  some  wretched  little  parish  lousy  with  its 
drunkenness.' 

"  So,  with  his  wife,  he  came  to  this  district  about 
thirty  years  ago,  when  I  was  still  a  boy  of  ten.  In  a 
village  some  two  miles  from  here,  he  was  to  replace 
the  priest  who  had  died.  This  priest  had  been  a 
fearful  old  souse.  For  years  he  had  so  often  been 
too  drunk  to  conduct  any  services,  that  the  peasants 


156  THE  VILLAGE 

had  dropped  the  habit  of  ever  coming  to  his  church. 
Now  the  wretched  man  was  dead,  leaving  a  small  and 
filthy  hut  and  a  little  log  church  half  tumbling  down, 
with  a  field  running  back  to  the  forest  and  all  over- 
grown with  weeds  and  brush,  for  he  had  been  too  lazy 
to  farm.  There  was  no  parish  school  for  the  chil- 
dren. 

"  At  first  Sergei  Gregorovitch  was  at  a  loss  how 
to  begin.  He  had  no  money  whatever,  and  only  a 
very  silly  young  wife,  who  loved  him  but  was  of  little 
help.  Nevertheless,  he  started  in.  He  helped  his 
wife  to  clean  out  the  hut,  and  he  himself  repaired  the 
church.  He  went  into  the  forest  with  an  ax  and 
began  cutting  trees  on  the  church  land.  Luckily  he 
was  a  powerful  chap.  He  persuaded  a  peasant  to 
help  him  haul  the  logs  out  to  the  river-bank,  and  they 
started  to  make  a  brick  kiln  there.  Other  peasants 
stopped  to  watch,  some  grew  interested  in  the  job, 
and  soon  he  had  quite  a  few  volunteers.  He  joked 
and  laughed  with  them  as  they  worked.  A  priest 
making  bricks  I  It  was  something  new.  More  and 
more  peasants  gathered  around.  They  built  a 
school-house  of  brick  and  logs,  and  then  Sergei 
Gregorovitch  collected  the  children  from  nearby. 
His  young  wife  scrubbed  them  thoroughly  and  he 
taught  them  in  the  school.  Later  on,  his  wife  and 
he  moved  over  to  the  school  to  live.  And  she 
cooked  lunch  for  the  children. 

"  The  influence  of  this  strange  young  man  began  to 
spread  through   the   neighborhood.     Some   of   the 


THE  VILLAGE  157 

peasants  began'  to  come,  not  only  to  church  services, 
but  between  times  for  advice  —  for  they  had  learned 
with  great  surprise  that  their  priest  had  a  head  quite 
packed  and  crammed  with  all  sorts  of  practical 
knowledge.  He  did  many  things  for  the  district. 
The  cattle  and  horses,  as  a  rule,  were  wretched  little 
animals.  Gregorovltch  went  to  Petrograd,  and 
there  by  begging  all  over  the  town  he  collected  two 
hundred  roubles.  With  this  sum  he  secured  for  two 
months  the  use  of  a  bull  and  a  stallion,  and  so  he 
began  to  improve  the  breed  of  live-stock  In  our 
neighborhood.  Again  he  begged  money  In  Petro- 
grad and  bought  better  stocks  of  seeds,  and  with  these 
he  soon  Increased  the  crops  of  rye,  oats  and  potatoes 
here.  His  wife  was  a  Finnish  girl  who  knew  how  to 
write  Swedish,  and  he  had  her  write  a  letter  now  to 
a  model  farm  in  Sweden,  from  which  he  got  all  kinds 
of  advice  on  modern  agriculture. 

"The  peasants  liked  him  more  and  more;  but 
many  used  to  laugh  at  him,  too,  for  he  was  so  little 
like  a  priest.  He  was  dressed  like  a  beggar,  he 
walked  so  fast  and  he  spoke  so  abruptly  —  more  like 
a  company  promoter  than  a  solemn  servant  of  God. 
'  What  Is  his  game?  '  they  wondered.  He  told  me 
that  he  heard  one  of  them  say,  '  This  priest  of  ours 
rushes  along  like  a  dog,  with  his  gown  flying  out 
like  the  flag  on  a  steamer.'  He  laughed  at  that, 
enjoying  the  joke.  And  he  laughed  at  the  drunken- 
ness, sloth  and  dirt. 

Surely  this  generation  Is  bad,  but  the  next  one 


it  ( 


158  THE  VILLAGE 

will  be  better,'  he  said.  '  First  we  shall  Improve  the 
breed  of  oats  and  rye,  of  horses  and  cows,  for  that  is 
a  quicker  job.  Then  we  shall  tackle  the  people  them- 
selves.' 

"  The  nearest  doctor  In  those  days  was  miles  away 
In  the  district  town.  There  was  disease  In  plenty 
here,  plagues  and  epidemics;  and  there  were  fre- 
quent accidents  on  barges  and  In  quarries.  Gregoro- 
vltch  thought  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  if  in  every  ham- 
let there  was  at  least  one  woman  or  girl  who  could 
give  first  aid  treatment.  So  he  went  to  the  doctor 
in  the  town.  He  went  in  his  ragged  old  black  gown, 
and  kneeled  and  kissed  the  doctor's  feet.  '  Help  us, 
brother,  for  Christ's  sake.'  He  persuaded  the  doc- 
tor to  come  twice  a  week  to  his  school  and  teach  the 
older  girls.  And  In  less  than  a  year,  in  every  one 
of  the  seven  little  villages  belonging  to  his  parish, 
there  was  a  girl  who  knew  at  least  something  of  how 
to  take  care  of  the  Injured  or  sick. 

"  Then  Sergei  Gregorovltch  went  to  a  prosper- 
ous peasant,  who  had  made  quite  a  lot  of  money  by 
manufacturing  quick-lime,  and  after  much  entreat- 
ing he  persuaded  the  man  for  the  glory  of  God  to 
build  a  dispensary.  It  was  built  of  brick,  not  far 
from  the  church.  And  there  some  forty  peasant 
girls  worked  as  volunteer  nurses,  under  a  head 
matron  and  the  doctor  from  the  town.  In  the  mean- 
time the  priest  had  found  that  women  In  childbirth 
often  died  because  they  had  no  one  to  help  them  but 


THE  VILLAGE  159 

neighbors  as  ignorant  as  themselves.  So  he  per- 
suaded the  doctor's  wife,  who  was  herself  a  midwife, 
to  come  over  and  teach  his  girl  nurses.  By  this  time 
they  began  to  be  known  as  '  The  Village  Sisters  of 
Mercy.'  When  a  woman  gave  birth  to  a  child,  the 
doctor  or  his  wife  would  be  there;  and  after  that,  for 
a  week  or  two,  one  of  the  young  Sisters  would  go 
every  day  to  the  woman's  hut,  do  the  house-work  for 
her,  tend  to  the  baby  and  see  that  all  was  done  as  the 
doctor  had  directed. 

"  About  this  time,  Gregorovitch  began  to  get  after 
the  drunkards.  He  came  to  me  one  night  with  a 
plan.  It  was  now  ten  years  since  his  beginning,  and 
I  was  a  student  in  Petrograd.  I  was  taking  a  chem- 
ical course,  and  when  I  came  home  in  the  summer  I 
used  to  make  experiments,  in  which  the  priest  would 
join  like  a  boy.  I  shall  never  forget  his  eager  black 
eyes.  Well,  on  this  night  he  proposed  to  me  an  ex- 
periment on  the  drunkards.  He  said  that  the  doctor 
approved  of  it,  and  I  was  quite  ready  to  join  in. 

"  '  We  must  do  this  job  in  a  scientific  way,'  said 
Gregorovitch  solemnly,  but  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
*  We  must,'  I  replied.  And  in  Petrograd  I  bought 
for  him  a  stomach  pump.  With  this  we  went  after 
the  drunkards  in  a  way  that  terrified  their  souls. 
Most  of  our  crimes  were  committed  at  night,  and 
our  victims  bellowed  like  young  bulls.  '  Their  stom- 
achs shall  be  whiter  than  snow,'  the  priest  declared, 
and  he  worked  with  a  will.     Then  he  gave  them  med- 


i6o  THE  VILLAGE 

icine  which  his  friend,  the  doctor,  had  prescribed. 
And  after  that,  the  mere  smell  of  vodka  was  a  terror 
to  their  souls. 

"  The  priest  drove  on  with  his  crusade.  In  the 
church,  he  preached  against  vodka  without  quoting  a 
word  from  the  gospel.  He  gave  only  medical  facts. 
And  this  was  a  terrible  scandal.  '  Heathen  lectures 
in  our  church !  '  If  the  doctor  happened  to  be  there, 
the  priest  would  stop  In  the  midst  of  his  sermon  to 
ask  the  doctor  a  question  or  two  and  so  amplify  his 
words.  The  peasants  opened  their  mouths  like  dogs 
at  this  chap  and  his  new  religion ! 

"  But  most  of  the  intelligent  ones  had  come  to  sup- 
port him  now.  Everything  he  had  done  for  them 
had  been  on  a  basis  of  give  and  take.  '  You  help  the 
church  and  I'll  help  you.'  With  their  aid  he  re- 
built his  church;  then  he  erected  a  larger  school;  and 
later  he  started  building,  In  each  of  the  seven  vil- 
lages, schools  and  churches  under  one  roof.  Most 
of  these  were  made  of  stone.  He  used  bowlders  for 
the  walls  and  hewn  timber  for  the  furniture.  He 
loved  to  work  with  ax  or  saw,  and  to  plow  and  har- 
row on  his  field. 

"  But  beneath  all  this,  remember,  was  a  man  of 
deep  refinement.  Often  he  would  come  to  our 
house,  and  in  my  father's  studio  he  would  talk  about 
paintings  half  the  night.  I  remember  once  at  day- 
break I  was  aroused  by  my  mother's  voice  scolding 
them  for  not  going  to  bed.  He  was  a  jovial  fellow. 
He  loved  to  go  to  the  country  balls  and  dance  with 


THE  VILLAGE  i6i 

the  very  prettiest  girls,  with  his  black  frock  waving 
behind  him,  his  long  hair  over  his  shoulders  swinging 
violently  about.  He  loved  good  horses;  it  was  his 
joy  to  borrow  a  horse  and  drive  very  fast.  The 
peasants  liked  him  more  and  more;  they  called  him 
now  '  our  gypsy  priest.' 

"  He  knew  how  to  get  on  with  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions —  even  with  the  corrupt  officials  of  the  for- 
mer government.  Once  when  he  wanted  money, 
he  went  to  the  police  inspector  in  the  district  town 
and  said  in  a  confidential  tone, 

"  '  Look  here,  brother,  in  your  work  I  know  you 
have  taken  money  which  had  much  better  go  to  God. 
If  you  square  up  accounts  with  Him  and  give  five 
hundred  roubles  for  a  new  church,  think  how  much 
easier  you  will  feel.'  The  inspector  gave  him  the 
money  but  looked  gloomy  at  the  loss  —  for  he  was  a 
fat  man  who  loved  his  wine.  Then  the  priest  said 
sadly,  '  I  was  wrong.  The  gift  has  not  made  you 
feel  easy  enough.  I  think  you  had  better  give  me 
now  so  much  money  that  you  can  smile.'  The  inspec- 
tor broke  into  a  laugh  at  this,  and  slapped  the  priest 
on  the  back,  and  said,  '  You  are  a  real  man,  brother  !  ' 
And  he  gave  five  hundred  more ! 

"  On  the  other  hand,  Gregorovitch  was  very  care- 
ful not  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  government  to 
his  many  village  reforms  —  for  all  progressive  men 
in  those  days  were  apt  to  get  on  the  list  of  '  suspects  ' 
and  so  be  allowed  to  do  nothing  at  all.  He  shunned 
the  word  '  progressive.'     Once  a  Petrograd  journal- 


1 62  THE  VILLAGE 

ist  came  out  to  write  about  his  work,  but  Sergei 
Gregorovitch  in  alarm  begged  him  not  to  write  a 
word.  '  I  am  not  a  progressive,'  he  said,  '  but  just 
a  plain  simple  man  in  the  village  doing  some  things 
for  the  love  of  Christ.' 

"  He  still  looked  like  a  beggar  man.  When  he 
needed  money  he  would  go  to  Petrograd,  and  kneel 
and  kiss  the  very  feet  of  the  people  who  could  help 
him.  He  also  earned  quite  a  bit  himself  by  con- 
ducting funerals  in  one  of  the  city  graveyards  there. 
He  used  to  joke  about  it.  '  I  grab  money  from  the 
dead,'  he  said,  '  to  use  it  for  the  living.' 

"  He  never  stopped  working  day  or  night.  He 
was  to  be  seen  at  all  hours  striding  about  the  country- 
side. If  a  peasant  was  dying,  the  priest  was  there ;  if 
a  child  was  born,  the  priest  was  there.  So  he  used 
up  his  life  in  twenty-five  years.  He  came  here  at 
twenty-two  and  died  at  forty-seven.  Meanwhile,  a 
generation  had  passed,  and  he  had  fulfilled  his 
promise.  For  a  new  generation  had  grown  up  and 
the  life  of  the  district  had  been  changed." 


Tarasov  took  me  one  afternoon  to  the  village 
where  the  priest  had  lived.  It  was  an  uneven  row  of 
huts  halfway  down  the  river-bank,  in  which  were 
jagged  limestone  quarries.  There  was  a  kiln  for 
quicklime  here,  and  a  score  of  women  and  boys  were 
loading  the  lime  onto  a  barge,  in  clumsy  httle  barrows 
which  they  trundled  up  a  plank.     A  few  old  fishing 


THE  VILLAGE  163 

dories  had  been  pulled  up  on  the  muddy  bank,  and 
some  fishing  nets  had  been  spread  out  to  dry.  From 
the  top  of  the  slope  a  small  green  meadow  extended 
back  to  the  forest. 

Up  there  was  the  hospital  Sergei  Gregorovitch  had 
built,  a  long  low  structure  made  of  brick.  We  found 
it  nearly  deserted.  One  of  the  village  Sisters  of 
Mercy,  a  peasant  girl  in  Red  Cross  garb,  showed  us 
the  dispensary  and  the  two  wards  of  five  beds  each. 
There  were  only  two  or  three  patients  left.  The 
war  had  stopped  their  work,  she  said.  No  more 
money  and  no  supplies  —  so  they  would  have  to  close 
it  down.  Not  far  away  was  the  small  church,  of 
plaster  painted  white  and  green.  The  brick  school- 
house  stood  close  by;  and  it  was  but  a  few  steps  from 
there  to  the  stout  square  building  of  brick  and  logs 
which  had  been  both  home  and  school  in  the  early 
years  when  the  priest  made  his  start.  It  stood  like  a 
little  fortress,  built  to  last  for  eternity.  The  walls 
were  nearly  four  feet  thick.  There  was  a  basement 
of  three  low  rooms  where  the  priest  and  his  wife  had 
lived,  and  two  large  sunny  rooms  above  which  he  had 
reserved  for  the  children.  In  the  rear  was  the  little 
old  hut  of  his  drunken  predecessor.  It  was  used 
as  a  stable  now.  There  was  a  barn,  a  vegetable 
garden  and  a  dark  green  field  of  rye. 

We  dropped  in  for  a  talk  with  the  new  priest,  who 
was  living  here  with  his  handsome  young  wife,  his 
sister  and  two  children.  They  occupied  both  floors 
of  the  house.      I  was  attracted  from  the  start  by  the 


1 64  THE  VILLAGE 

high  spirits  of  this  little  family.  There  were  giggles 
and  laughter  as  we  came  in,  and  Tarasov  was 
greeted  joyously.  As  for  me,  I  was  a  sensation.  A 
writer  from  America,  come  to  interview  the  priest! 
We  were  ushered  into  the  living-room,  fresh  and 
clean  with  its  plastered  walls,  which  were  painted 
a  light  blue.  There  were  high-backed  chairs  with 
"  tidies,"  a  sofa  and  a  table  covered  with  a  red  velvet 
cloth.  The  priest  was  an  affable  little  man,  dressed 
in  a  brown  linen  robe.  His  head  was  nearly  bald  in 
front  but  his  hair  fell  over  his  shoulders  behind. 
His  age  was  about  thirty-five.  He  had  a  funny  tuft 
of  a  beard  and  he  wore  gold  glasses  on  his  nose, 
with  twinkling  eyes  behind  them.  His  features  radi- 
ated health,  high  spirits,  animation.  His  talk  was 
pointed  by  quick  gestures  and  by  large  expansive 
smiles. 

"  The  revolution,"  he  declared,  "  has  been  a  splen- 
did thing  for  the  church.  But  it  was  not  all  so 
smooth  at  first,  for  the  people  looked  upon  the  priests 
as  the  hated  officials  of  the  Czar.  On  the  fifth  of 
March  the  peasants  came  rushing  into  my  church- 
yard. Many  of  them  were  young  rowdies  who  had 
not  come  to  worship  for  years.  They  were  In  a  furi- 
ous mood. 

"  '  Holy  ground,'  they  shouted,  '  is  no  place  to 
speak  with  a  devil  like  you !  '  And  they  told  me  to 
come  to  the  school-house  and  give  them  an  account- 
ing of  what  I  had  done  with  the  church  funds.  I 
saw  an  ugly  time  ahead.     I  said  good-by  to  my  wife 


THE  VILLAGE  165 

and  children,  for  I  was  sure  I  would  be  killed.  In 
the  school  the  peasants  all  began  to  shout  at  me: 
'Show  us  your  books  and  your  accounts!  If  any 
money  stuck  to  your  fingers,  we  will  swing  you  to  a 
tree !  ' 

"  To  reply  to  them,  let  me  tell  you,  was  a  very  diffi- 
cult job.  I  have  always  detested  bookkeeping.  My 
books  had  been  kept  for  me  by  a  clerk,  who  used  to 
come  from  the  district  town  —  and  now  as  I  held 
them  in  my  hands,  I  could  make  nothing  of  them. 
All  the  time  that  peasant  mob  kept  up  the  threats 
and  insults: 

"  '  See  how  he  trembles,  the  guilty  dog!  Let  us 
smash  in  his  skull  for  him,  and  find  what  guilty 
thoughts  are  there !  ' 

"  I  tried  to  explain  as  best  I  could,  but  they  would 
have  none  of  it.  Soon  they  all  crowded  around  one 
chap  who  knew  how  to  write,  and  he  wrote  a  petition 
to  Petrograd  demanding  that  I  be  thrown  out  of  the 
church  as  an  enemy  of  God  and  the  people.  That 
was  a  very  trying  day;  and  when  at  night  they  let  me 
go,  I  was  utterly  exhausted. 

"  The  peasants  now  felt  themselves  wholly  free, 
and  my  position  in  those  days  was  like  that  of  a  man 
standing  near  a  great  dog  who  has  just  broken  his 
chain  in  a  rage,  and  is  barking,  and  has  not  decided 
yet  whether  he  shall  leap  on  the  man  and  tear  him 
all  to  pieces,  or  whether  he  shall  simply  jump  for 
joy  because  he  is  free.  After  the  strain  upon  my 
nerves,   I   dropped  into  a   stupor  of  complete   in- 


1 66  THE  VILLAGE 

difference.  Everything  was  so  uncertain.  How 
could  I  go  on  with  my  work?  The  peasants  still  kept 
watching  my  house  as  though  they  thought  I  might 
try  to  escape.  They  would  follow  me  when  I  walked 
out  and  shout  all  manner  of  abuse.  Meanwhile  they 
kept  sending  more  petitions  to  Petrograd.  There 
was  no  response,  because  in  that  city  the  new  leaders 
were  too  absorbed  in  politics  to  stop  for  the  church. 
But  out  here  in  my  little  parish,  the  whole  revolu- 
tion in  those  days  centered  around  this  house  of  God; 
for  it  had  been  the  very  heart  of  life  for  themselves 
and  their  children. 

"  Well,  as  I  waited,  little  by  little  the  trouble  In  my 
soul  disappeared.  Slowly  I  began  to  see  the  great 
good  in  the  revolution.  I  felt  as  though  old  hand- 
cuffs, that  had  rusted  into  the  bones  of  my  wrists,  had 
now  suddenly  fallen  off,  that  I  was  free  from  the 
Old  Regime  and  that  I  could  work  for  God  as  I 
chose.  I  prayed  to  Him  to  show  me  the  way,  and 
in  a  dream  I  received  this  message:  'Carefully 
read  the  creed  of  your  church.'  I  did  so,  until  I  came 
to  the  words,  '  I  believe  in  one  congregational 
church.'  And  then  I  saw  what  I  must  do.  For  that 
word  'congregational'  was  God's  answer  to  my 
prayer.  I  must  bring  the  peasants  back  into  the 
church  reorganized  in  such  a  way  that  they  should 
feel  they  could  run  it  themselves  and  make  it  a  part 
of  the  revolution. 

"  Now  I  walked  all  over  my  parish.  I  entered 
every  hut  and  said,  '  You  must  run  the  house  of  God 


THE  VILLAGE  167 

yourselves.  You  must  come  and  hold  a  meeting 
there.'  And  they  told  me  they  would  come.  Then 
I  went  home  and  anxiously  planned.  Each  one  of 
the  seven  hamlets  should  elect  two  delegates,  I  re- 
solved, and  these  fourteen  should  form  my  board. 
But  how  manage  the  elections  in  the  best  and  speed- 
iest way?  I  resolved  on  having  a  secret  ballot. 
And  this  mere  technical  detail,  when  the  day  of  the 
meeting  arrived,  proved  to  be  my  salvation.  For  the 
peasants  were  as  interested  and  pleased  as  children 
with  a  new  toy. 

"  '  This  is  a  mighty  smart  trick  1  '  they  declared. 
'Why  have  we  not  thought  of  it  before?  When 
we  used  to  elect  our  starosta  or  decide  any  question 
in  the  mir,  what  a  lot  of  shouting  we  did !  The  fel- 
low who  could  bawl  the  loudest  was  the  one  who 
carried  the  day.  If  a  bull  could  have  been  at  our 
meetings,  his  view  would  certainly  have  prevailed!  ' 
Then  an  old  wolf  of  a  peasant  growled  out,  '  At  a 
meeting  in  my  village,  the  whole  discussion  was 
broken  up  by  a  fool  with  a  big  harmonica.  Right 
into  the  crowd  he  marched.  As  he  played,  he  sang 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  The  girls  and  boys  sang  with 
him,  and  so  the  whole  meeting  came  to  an  end.' 
Another  one,  a  woman,  said,  '  But  now  just  see  how 
smooth  it  works.  You  choose  your  man  inside  of 
your  soul,  and  God  alone  knows  who  it  is.  Into  the 
box  you  drop  his  name;  and  your  husband  cannot 
beat  you  for  not  having  given  him  your  vote !  ' 

"  Well,  so  the  peasants  were  greatly  pleased  with 


1 68  THE  VILLAGE 

my  secret  ballot  plan.  Less  than  half  of  them  knew 
how  to  write,  but  I  helped  the  others  out,  and  so 
they  elected  their  delegates.  [They  chose  four 
women  and  ten  men.  I  soon  called  a  meeting  of  the 
new  board,  and  sitting  around  a  table  here  they 
dived  into  the  mysteries  of  accounting  and  book- 
keeping; and  when  they  could  understand  nothing  at 
all,  they  began  to  show  me  sympathy. 

You  have  a  hard  job  here,'  they  said. 
I  did  have  it,'  I  replied.     '  But  now  it  is  yours.' 
They  looked  very  uneasy. 

"  '  We  do  not  want  it,'  one  of  them  said.  '  It  was 
you  who  came  and  called  us  together  to  take  a  share 
in  the  life  of  the  church.' 

"  '  But  this  is  your  share,'  I  told  them,  '  to  control 
the  property,  and  leave  the  affairs  of  the  soul  to  your 
priest.' 

"  And  I  have  stuck  to  this  point  ever  since.  I  re- 
fuse to  haggle  with  the  man  who  cuts  the  firewood 
for  the  church;  I  refuse  to  decide  the  wages  of  the 
old  woman  who  cleans  out  the  school.  In  this 
year  of  revolution  and  strikes,  I  have  had  a  little 
strike  of  my  own,  and  with  the  result  I  am  quite 
content. 

"  Well,  in  addition  to  such  jobs  my  board  of  lay- 
men has  done  other  things.  Not  long  ago  they  chose 
one  of  their  number  to  be  sent  to  Petrograd,  to  a 
national  church  assembly  there.  In  this  choice,  too, 
they  were  greatly  pleased  to  use  the  secret  ballot. 
First  I  carefully  explained  how  a  great  all-Russian 


THE  VILLAGE  169 

assembly  was  to  be  held  to  consider  the  plan  for  a 
new  and  democratic  church.  Then  I  let  them  elect 
their  man,  and  very  solemnly  they  chose  a  wise  old 
peasant  fisherman. 

"  Again,  about  two  weeks  ago  we  faced  a  critical 
problem.  For  in  Petrograd  the  new  Ministry  of 
Education  had  announced  that  it  would  soon  take 
away  from  the  church  its  thirty-five  thousand  parish 
schools  and  manage  them  like  all  the  rest.  No  com- 
pulsory teaching  of  God's  word !  When  I  came 
across  this  sinful  plan,  I  called  together  not  only 
my  board  but  my  whole  congregation  here,  and  had 
them  vote  on  the  question.  By  a  vote  of  two  hun- 
dred to  seventeen  they  decided:  '  If  God's  law  is 
not  taught,  we  will  not  send  our  children  to  school.' 
At  the  meeting  a  peasant  soldier,  who  had  lost  an 
arm  in  battle,  suddenly  arose  and  said, 

"  '  God's  law  must  be  taught  to  my  children,  or 
else  they  will  grow  up  wild  as  hawks !  And  it  must 
be  done  at  the  nation's  expense.  Everything  else 
that  is  taught  in  the  school  is  paid  for  by  the  nation; 
and  God's  law  is  most  important  of  all  —  for  without 
it  a  man  is  only  a  beast !  ' 

"  When  he  sat  down  you  could  see  them  all  nod- 
ding their  heads  in  approval.  I  remember  one  old 
woman  in  front  who  kept  nodding  long  after  the 
others  were  through,  and  whispering  quickly  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  Then  I  rose  and  talked  to  my 
people. 

You  must  think  this  out  very  clearly,'  I  said. 


((  ( 


lyo  THE  VILLAGE 

'  If  the  Government  supports  our  church,  what  of 
the  other  religious  sects?  Shall  they  be  supported, 
too?  Remember  this  Is  a  new  free  land  where  all 
men  should  be  treated  well.  Shall  the  Lutheran 
pastors  and  the  Polish  Catholic  priests,  Jewish 
rabbis,  Mohammedan  Mullahs,  be  supported  by  the 
State?  '     The  wounded  soldier  rose  and  declared, 

"  '  In  the  new  free  Russia,  brothers,  all  must  be 
allowed  to  worship  God  and  the  Saints  in  their  own 
way.     And  therefore  all  these  men  should  be  paid.' 

"  He  sat  down,  and  most  of  them  said,  '  He  is 
right'  But  without  standing  up  an  old  peasant 
called  out: 

"  '  The  money  that  the  Government  spends  is  noth- 
ing but  our  taxes.  We  must  not  waste  It  foolishly. 
And  so  in  each  village  the  people  must  meet  and 
choose  what  church  they  want  the  most.  Then  let 
us  support  that  church,  but  no  others.  It  would  cost 
too  much  for  us  to  have  four  or  five  religions  here !  ' 

"  So  the  speeches  went  on,  showing  shrewd  good 
sense  and  a  deep  conviction  of  the  need  of  religious 
education.  And  I  was  very  happy  that  night.  For 
truly  religious  instruction  is  the  very  foundation  of 
life.  They  claim  It  is  a  needless  expense  to  teach 
God's  law  in  the  government  schools  —  but  remem- 
ber that  In  a  human  existence  there  come  two  terrible 
moments  which  are  as  vital  as  all  the  other  thou- 
sands of  days  and  nights  in  a  life.  These  two 
moments  are  birth  and  death,  and  there  Is  a  dark 
mystery  In  them  both,  which  only  religion  can  fill 


THE  VILLAGE  171 

with  light.  People  say  that  a  certain  man  has  been 
taken  up  to  Paradise.  Where  is  that?  I  believe  it  is 
not  in  the  skies;  for  I  remember  the  words  of  Christ, 
'  The  Kingdom  of  God  Is  within  you.'  It  is  like  a 
great  warm  light  which  He  keeps  burning  in  our 
souls.     And  only  He  can  keep  It  bright. 

'*  I  hear  that  In  France  and  England  they  try  to 
give  moral  teaching  to  children  without  any  real 
belief  In  God.  But  you  cannot  go  very  far  with  a 
child  if  you  appeal  to  his  reason  alone.  Go  and 
hear  a  machine  piano  play,  and  then  a  real  musician. 
Both  play  the  same  piece  of  music,  but  what  a  differ- 
ence there  is!  And  there  Is  the  same  gap  between 
the  morals  of  children  brought  up  by  mere  logic  and 
those  reared  In  the  love  of  Christ.  On  such  love  all 
our  social  duties  should  be  founded  as  on  rock.  If 
every  man  and  woman  and  child  has  a  kingdom  of 
God  within  him,  then  we  shall  never  again  have  a 
Czar —  for  this  will  raise  our  people  to  such  a  state 
of  enlightenment  that  Russia  will  be  a  free  brother- 
hood and  never  again  an  autocracy. 

"  Yes,  I  am  for  the  revolution,  glad  the  Old 
Regime  Is  gone.  When  I  was  In  Petrograd  last 
year,  the  Czar's  police  would  jeer  at  me. 

"  '  Look  at  this  long-haired  man  of  God,'  I  heard 
one  of  them  say  on  the  street.  '  For  years  these 
priests  have  preached  against  vodka.  Men  went  on 
boozing  just  the  same.  But  then  our  Little  Father, 
the  Czar,  stopped  it  all  with  one  stroke  of  his  pen. 
The  real  power  is  in  the  law.' 


172  THE  VILLAGE 

"  But  those  ignorant  brutes  have  been  thrown  out, 
for  we  want  no  more  of  these  Czar  commands. 
Now  all  must  be  done  by  man's  free  will,  and  it  must 
be  the  work  of  the  church  to  make  this  will  a  power 
for  good  and  for  the  happiness  of  all.  So  the  priest 
in  this  parish  before  me  worked.  He  used  no  force 
or  repression,  he  simply  worked  by  argument  and 
good  deeds  for  the  love  of  Christ.  And  what  happi- 
ness he  brought  to  men! 

"  Another  good  thing  in  the  revolution  is  that  it 
has  set  free  all  religions.  The  Orthodox  Church  and 
the  Old  Believers,  Catholics,  Lutherans,  Buddhists, 
Mohammedans,  Jews,  all  have  their  chance.  And 
that  will  be  a  good  thing  for  us,  for  they  have  much 
that  we  can  learn.  For  example,  we  say  that  a  man 
is  born  sinful  and  must  be  washed  clean  —  but  the 
Buddhist  says  just  the  opposite.  He  declares  that 
the  whole  world  is  a  bright  and  glorious  miracle,  and 
man  is  the  diamond  of  It  all.  I  like  such  doctrine;  it 
is  fine!  It  used  to  be  in  our  own  church,  too;  for 
Christ,  the  Great  Brother,  preached  joy  and  not 
gloom.  The  gloom  was  a  trick  of  our  government, 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  the  people  down. 

"  All  real  socialists  should  be  our  friends.  Their 
aim,  the  welfare  of  the  body,  should  go  hand  In  hand 
with  ours,  which  is  the  welfare  of  the  soul.  You 
cannot  blame  the  peasants  here  for  keeping  their 
minds  on  material  things;  for  they  live  in  wretched 
poverty  still,  and  only  when  this  poverty  is  lifted 
off  their  shoulders  can  they  straighten  up  like  men. 


THE  VILLAGE  173 

In  this  we  must  help.  We  are  already  planning  a 
new  education  for  our  young  priests.  They  will  be 
taught  not  only  religion,  but  also  the  practical  sci- 
ences, agriculture,  economics,  medicine,  sanitation  — 
anything  that  can  be  of  use  to  the  daily  life  of  the 
village.  We  need  athletic  sports  and  games  to  at- 
tract the  young  people  to  the  church.  I  have  read 
of  how  they  do  such  things  in  your  American 
churches  —  which  seem  to  be  driving  rapidly  along 
the  same  road  which  we  must  take. 

"  Already  our  Russian  priests  are  beginning  to 
drop  the  unnatural  tone  of  voice  that  was  used  In  con- 
ducting the  service.  Now  every  word  must  be  un- 
derstood. We  want  no  more  needless  mystery. 
We  shall  have  a  hard  enough  time  as  it  is,  to  make 
simple  and  clear  In  the  peasant's  mind  the  connec- 
tion between  the  new  free  Russia  and  the  reorganized 
Church  of  Christ.  We  must  show  how  the  old  saints 
were  really  the  first  socialists,  the  pioneers  who  not 
only  worked  for  the  souls  of  the  people  but  helped 
them  to  cooperate  and  do  better  farming,  too.  The 
stories  of  such  holy  men  must  be  told  in  church  to 
the  peasants,  and  linked  with  the  names  of  Edison, 
Cartwrlght  and  Pasteur,  and  other  modern  pioneers. 

"  And  of  course  our  church  must  clean  its  house. 
The  corrupt  and  impure  monks  must  be  thrown  out 
of  the  monasteries,  and  they  must  be  made  places 
where  the  monks  work  for  the  people  as  the  saints 
did  in  the  past.  As  yet,  the  monks,  who  are  called 
the  Black  Priests,  have  shown  little  sign  of  sympathy 


174  THE  VILLAGE 

for  the  new  free  Russia.  It  Is  the  White  Priests  In 
the  parishes  who  are  leading  the  movement  of  prog- 
ress now;  and  there  may  be  a  great  struggle  soon 
between  the  Black  Priests  and  the  White.  For  we 
White  Priests  are  the  ones  who  are  close  to  the 
village  life;  and  only  by  keeping  close  to  the  people 
will  the  Russian  Church  hve  on. 

"  And  this  is  as  it  should  be.  For  in  the  begin- 
ning the  Great  Brother  said,  *  I  am  not  the  God  of 
the  dead,  but  of  the  living.'  " 

3 

Soon  after  that,  we  started  home;  and  as  we 
strolled  up  the  river-bank,  Tarasov  asked  what  I 
thought  of  the  priest. 

"  A  bit  too  rosy,"  I  replied,  "  in  his  view  of  the 
church  and  what  it  can  do.  I  keep  thinking  of  the 
priests  I've  seen  in  other  Russian  villages,  in  Petro- 
grad  and  Moscow.  About  nine  out  of  ten  appeared 
to  me  an  Ignorant  stupid  lot  of  men,  who  would  ask 
for  nothing  better  than  a  return  to  the  Old  Regime." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Tarasov,  "  this  fellow  is 
significant.  He  is  one  of  the  younger  priests,  who 
have  been  reached  by  the  influences  of  the  last  twelve 
years.  For  Russia  has  never  been  the  same  since 
the  first  revolution  in  1905."  He  turned  and  studied 
my  face  for  a  moment.  "  What  is  the  matter?  "  he 
inquired. 

"  It's  hard  to  put  It  in  words,"  I  replied, ''  but  your 
jolly  little  priest  back  there  —  well,  he  did  not  seem 


THE  VILLAGE  175 

to  me  to  have  got  very  deep  into  life.  I  should  like 
to  have  met  the  other  one  —  the  ragged  chap  who 
chopped  down  trees,  made  bricks  and  used  the  stom- 
ach pump,  worked  and  begged  and  danced  —  and 
died.  His  successor  seemed  to  me  to  be  talking  out 
of  books.  He's  all  right  so  far  as  he  goes  —  but 
somehow,  here  in  Russia,  I'm  always  expecting  some- 
thing—  something  a  good  deal  deeper  than  that." 
Tarasov  lit  a  cigarette  and  I  noticed  a  curious  glint  in 
his  eyes. 

"  I  shall  show  you  something  deeper,"  he  said. 
And  when  I  asked  him  what  he  meant,  he  replied, 
"  The  village  sorcerer." 

On  the  following  Sunday,  we  went  back  to  the  little 
church,  which  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  forest.  The 
bells  were  already  jangling,  and  the  narrow  dirt  road 
on  the  river-bank  was  dotted  by  hurrying  figures. 
At  the  gate  of  the  churchyard,  two  old  beggars  stood 
bowing  low  and  muttering  their  appeals  for  alms. 
In  a  long  open  shed  nearby  stood  a  row  of  carts  and 
horses.  The  service  was  about  to  begin.  Some  of 
the  men  had  gone  inside;  others  were  sitting  on  the 
grass  smoking  pipes  or  cigarettes.  They  were 
dressed  in  sober  black  or  gray,  with  trousers  tucked 
into  their  high  boots.  A  few  wore  colored  blouses. 
Here  and  there  under  the  somber  fir  trees  stood  huge 
wooden  crosses,  some  white  and  some  a  faded  blue. 
Each  one  marked  a  peasant's  grave.  Presently 
a  young  woman  in  black,  with  a  small  girl  clinging  to 
her  hand,   came   hurrying  in   through   a   side   gate. 


176  THE  VILLAGE 

They  went  straight  to  a  new-made  grave  with  a 
soldier's  cap  upon  its  cross,  and  standing  there  with 
heads  bowed  low  they  prayed  devoutly  for  the  dead, 
crossing  themselves  from  time  to  time.  The  widow 
looked  barely  twenty  years  old.  Her  broad  face 
was  impassive.  They  turned  and  went  quietly  into 
the  church. 

Over  near  the  hitching  shed,  stood  a  high  swing 
for  the  children,  and  three  jolly  little  boys  were 
swinging  there  —  two  in  white  blouses,  the  other  in 
red.  Their  feet  were  bare.  Watching  them,  on  the 
grass  nearby  sat  two  young  Austrian  prisoners  who 
were  smoking  cigarettes.  We  went  over  and  joined 
them.  They  were  Hungarian  mountaineers  who 
had  been  taken  prisoner  on  the  great  Brusilov  drive 
down  into  the  Carpathians.  At  first  they  had 
worked  in  Siberia,  lumbering  in  the  forests.  Now 
they  were  loading  barges  here.  They  were  paid  the 
same  wages  as  Russians,  they  said,  and  were  free 
to  go  about.  They  seemed  to  be  quite  satisfied. 
These  were  good  people,  they  declared.  There 
were  some  fine  girls  in  the  village.  On  the  whole 
they  were  having  a  very  good  time,  and  doubted  if 
they  would  ever  go  home. 

"  I  don't  care  to  live  in  my  country,"  said  one,  "  till 
the  Germans  get  out.  They  are  trying  to  manage 
everything  there."  The  other  one  asked  if  America 
had  declared  war  on  Austria  yet.  "  No,"  I  replied, 
"  but  it's  bound  to  happen  soon  if  your  country  stays 
in  the  war."     He  scowled  and  said  he  was  sorry. 


THE  VILLAGE  177 

He  had  a  married  brother  living  in  Pennsylvania. 

A  moment  later  we  left  them,  for  the  peasants  all 
around  us  were  throwing  looks  of  suspicion  our  way. 

The  church  was  of  white  plaster,  with  a  green  roof 
and  a  dome  of  gold.  We  found  It  crowded  with 
people  inside.  The  walls  were  white,  the  vaulted 
ceiling  was  blue  with  gold  stars,  and  there  was  much 
gold  and  tinsel  about.  Painted  saints  looked  down 
from  the  walls,  and  there  were  many  candles  burn- 
ing. Wreaths  of  incense  hung  In  the  air.  In  front, 
beside  the  little  priest,  stood  the  huge  old  peasant 
deacon,  who  was  slowly  Intoning  the  service  in  a  deep 
and  thrilling  bass.  Both  the  deacon  and  the  priest 
were  dressed  in  stiff  brocaded  robes.  The  responses 
were  being  sung  by  a  peasant  choir  of  boys  and  girls. 
We  went  outside  and  sat  listening.  Through  the 
open  windows,  the  music  poured  in  waves  of  sound, 
with  a  crude  sweet  yearning  beauty,  as  though  plead- 
ing for  Holy  Russia  with  God. 

A  soldier  sat  near  us  on  the  grass.  He  looked 
hardly  more  than  a  boy.  His  rough  boots  were 
broken,  gray  with  mud;  his  uniform  was  dirty  and 
torn;  his  face  was  unshaven,  and  in  his  eyes  was  a 
look  half  sullen,  half  bewildered.  He  took  a 
cigarette  from  my  friend,  but  he  was  in  no  mood  to 
talk.  No,  he  had  not  deserted,  he  said,  he  was  here 
on  leave  from  Petrograd.  But  It  was  hard  to  tell 
what  to  do.     Every  one  said  something  different. 

"  Some  fellows  say  to  go  on  with  the  war;  others 
say  to  stop  fighting  now.     Some  are  shouting,  *  Kill 


178  THE  VILLAGE 

the  rich.'  Others  say  that  will  do  us  no  good.  And 
nobody  knows  and  nothing  is  sure.  All  is  mixed 
up  and  nothing  is  clear.  .  .  .  And  here  they  are 
singing,  and  how  do  I  know?  Is  there  a  God  or  is 
this  all  a  he?" 

The  youngster  heaved  a  heavy  sigh,  threw  away 
his  cigarette,  lay  back  in  the  grass  and  folded  his 
arms  tight  over  his  eyes.  Those  eyes  and  the  low 
fierce  note  in  his  voice  had  given  me  such  an  impres- 
sion of  groping  and  anxiety,  that  as  I  looked  down 
on  him  he  had  my  genuine  sympathy.  But  all  at 
once,  very  softly,  this  Russian  youth  began  to  snore. 

A  gray  bearded  peasant  came  out  of  the  church, 
with  a  heavy  pewter  plate  in  his  hands,  and  began 
to  pass  the  collection  among  the  people  in  the  yard. 
When  he  came  to  the  sleeping  soldier,  he  stirred  the 
boy  angrily  with  his  foot. 

"This  is  no  place  for  your  snoozing!  "  he  mut- 
tered. "  You  ought  to  be  fighting  and  winning  the 
war!" 

The  lad  jumped  up,  with  an  angry  scowl,  went 
shambling  out  of  the  churchyard  and  disappeared 
into  the  forest  nearby. 

For  a  few  moments  longer  we  sat  listening  to  the 
singing.     Then  Tarasov  touched  my  arm. 

"  Look,"  he  said  to  me  softly.  "  You  asked  for 
something  very  deep.  It  is  standing  over  by  the 
gate." 


THE  VILLAGE 


4 

I  saw  a  short,  gnarled  figure  there,  an  old  man 
leaning  on  a  stick.  Upon  his  thick  gray  shock  of 
hair  a  soft  brown  hat  was  pushed  far  back.  His 
face  was  tanned  and  wrinkled;  his  eyes  so  sharp 
that  I  noticed  them  even  from  across  the  yard. 

"His  name,"  said  Tarasov,  "is  Kraychok  — 
which  in  English  means  Wild  Duck.  It's  lucky  for 
you  that  he's  still  alive.  There  were  thousands  like 
him  in  the  villages  once,  but  now  they  are  rapidly 
dying  out  and  he  is  one  of  the  last  of  his  kind.  He  is 
the  village  sorcerer." 

As  we  drew  near,  he  did  not  see  us  —  for  his  head 
was  turned  to  one  side;  and  as  the  music  from  the 
choir  drifted  out  from  the  church  nearby,  in  his 
black  eyes  was  a  glint  of  amusement.  He  was 
watching  a  horse  in  the  hitching  shed  who  was  try- 
ing very  carefully  to  reach  a  fly  with  his  hind  leg. 
When  the  old  man  caught  sight  of  Tarasov,  a  smile 
leaped  over  his  grim  face.  A  vigorous  handshake, 
a  few  gruff  words,  and  then  abruptly  he  led  the  way 
out  of  the  little  churchyard  and  off  along  the  river- 
bank. 

"  We  are  going  to  his  hut,"  said  my  friend. 
"  And  I  shall  tell  you  about  him  first.  He  will  not 
mind  if  I  leave  him  out  of  the  conversation  now; 
for  he  likes  to  be  left  to  himself. 

'*  I  met  him  through  my  father.  My  father,  as 
a  peasant  boy,  went  to  school  in  the  monastery  just 


i8o  THE  VILLAGE 

across  the  river;  and  what  he  did  not  learn  from  the 
monks  he  learned  through  Kraychok,  his  close  friend. 
Kraychok  was  then  a  wild  little  lad  who  lived  in  the 
same  hut  in  the  forest  to  which  he  is  taking  us  to- 
day. In  those  early  years  his  father  was  there, 
and  he  was  also  a  sorcerer.  He  taught  the  two  boys 
many  things,  dark  mysteries  of  forest  life.  He  was 
a  great  hunter  and  trapper,  and  a  man  of  such 
strange  power,  too,  that  he  could  weave  hypnotic 
spells.  Time  passed  and  this  old  hunter  died. 
Meanwhile  the  two  lads  grew  up.  My  father  be- 
came a  painter  and  he  used  to  paint  the  peasants 
here  —  his  old  friend  Kraychok  most  of  all.  In  his 
studio  they  had  long  talks;  and  I  used  to  listen,  a 
scared  little  boy.  I  remember  nothing  that  I  heard; 
for  It  was  such  a  fearful  thing  to  be  listening  to  a 
sorcerer,  that  his  gruff  words  would  often  be  a  mere 
jumble  in  my  ears. 

"  Kraychok  was  a  hunter.  You  see  the  cartridge 
belt  at  his  side.  In  those  days  he  would  disappear 
into  the  forest  for  weeks  at  a  time;  and  there,  the 
peasants  used  to  say,  he  communed  with  the  powers 
of  darkness,  as  his  father  and  his  grandfather  had 
done  many  years  before.  But  all  that  he  learned 
of  such  forces  he  used  only  for  the  people's  good. 
He  employed  his  miraculous  power  against  the  so- 
called  Evil  Eye.  When  It  cast  Its  baneful  spell  on 
some  frightened  woman  or  child,  every  one  knew 
that  Kraychok  could  break  that  spell  If  he  so  pleased. 
And  even  though  he  was  greatly  feared,  he  was 


THE  VILLAGE  i8i 

deeply  liked  by  the  peasants;  for  he  was  almost  al- 
ways ready  to  use  his  power  in  their  behalf, 

"  My  father  painted  him  many  times.  One  pic- 
ture hung  in  the  studio  when  I  was  still  a  little  chap; 
and  often  when  the  room  was  empty  toward  the 
evening,  I  would  steal  in  through  the  open  door  and 
look  at  it  fearfully  in  the  dusk.  Suddenly  with  a 
cold  rush  of  fear  I  would  scamper  into  a  corner  and 
hide,  with  my  face  pressed  close  against  the  log 
wall.  But  soon  I  would  come  slowly  back  and  gaze 
up  wondering  as  before. 

"  I  learned  about  the  sorcerer,  too,  from  my  aged 
grandmother.  Although  not  superstitious  (for  she 
was  a  great  reader  of  Voltaire),  she  was  constantly 
being  surprised  and  disturbed  by  the  things  this 
simple  hunter  could  do.  At  a  sick  bed  in  some  peas- 
ant's hut,  she  had  seen  him  stop  a  flow  of  blood  by 
the  slow  hypnotic  words  he  spoke  and  the  strange 
power  in  his  eyes.  In  this  way  he  worked  many 
miraculous  cures  —  of  a  kind  that  since  have  been 
explained  by  Charcot  in  Paris. 

"  As  I  grew  older,  Kraychok  took  me  into  the 
forest  to  hunt.  One  day,  I  remember,  after  he 
had  been  telling  some  stories  of  enchantment,  he 
stopped  short  and  said  to  me,  '  Now,  Juvenale  Ivan- 
ovitch,  put  your  shotgun  on  the  ground  and  I  will 
show  you  something.'  I  put  down  my  gun;  and  in 
a  voice  with  a  gathering  power  in  it,  he  said,  '  Walk 
across  this  clearing,  and  be  sure  you  don't  look 
back!  '     So    I    walked    along.     The    ground    was 


1 82  THE  VILLAGE 

smooth,  quite  level.  Yet  suddenly  I  felt  as  though 
my  feet  had  struck  on  something.  I  stumbled  and 
pitched  forward.  In  a  great  fright  I  rose  and 
looked  back;  and  there,  ten  steps  behind  me,  stood 
the  old  man  laughing  —  in  such  a  way  that  he  made 
no  sound.  There  was  sweat  upon  his  forehead  and 
an  exhausted  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  '  Ah,  Juvenale  Ivanovitch,'  he  said  to  me  softly, 
'  see  how  you  fell  down  suddenly  on  such  a  nice 
smooth  piece  of  ground.' 

"  I  stared  at  him,  then  ran  away;  but  in  a  few 
minutes  I  came  back  and  begged  him  to  tell  me  how 
he  had  done  it. 

First,'  he  explained,  in  that  same  low  voice, 
'  I  got  you  into  just  the  right  mood,  for  that  is  very 
important.  Then  I  told  you  to  walk  along,  and  I 
came  softly  close  behind.  I  put  my  own  soul  into 
yours.  And  suddenly  I  made  myself  feel  as  though 
I  had  stumbled  and  fallen  down.  If  I  do  this  with 
absolute  certainty,  then  nothing  can  stop  you  from 
doing  so,  too.' 

"  He  used  this  power  constantly.  He  would  em- 
ploy it  in  love  affairs.  He  could  make  boys  and  girls 
fall  in  love  with  each  other,  or  out  again,  whenever 
he  chose.  But  never  would  he  do  this  for  money; 
he  Intervened  in  such  affairs  only  when  sure  he  was 
doing  good.  He  made  many  matches  in  this  way 
and  broke  up  many  betrothals.  He  employed  his 
power,  too,  on  the  sick  —  not  only  through  hypnotic 


THE  VILLAGE  183 

force  but  also  through  herbs  In  the  forest,  which  his 
father  had  taught  him  to  use." 

After  that,  Tarasov  talked  with  Kraychok  for  a 
time.  Then  presently  we  came  to  his  home,  on  the 
edge  of  a  wood  of  birches  and  firs.  A  small  hut  of 
old  brown  logs,  it  was  lined  with  skins  inside;  there 
were  dried  plants  on  the  floor;  herbs  hung  from  the 
low  rafters;  and  by  a  rude  couch  in  a  corner  was  a 
small  black  iron  pot  In  which  he  brewed  his  medi- 
cines. 

"  He  has  little  use  for  his  medicines  now,"  Tara- 
sov told  me,  "  for  the  doctor  from  the  town  has 
slowly  but  steadily  taken  his  place.  The  doctor,  the 
school-teacher  and  the  priest  have  gradually  shoved 
him  to  the  wall.  That  is  why  he  is  so  silent.  He 
keeps  thinking  of  the  past." 

The  old  man  had  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  was 
watching  us  with  grim  curious  eyes. 

*'  While  he  brewed,"  continued  Tarasov,  "  he  kept 
repeating  to  himself  strange  words  that  he  had  been 
taught  by  his  father.  As  a  student  I  wrote  some 
of  them  down,  and  from  a  professor  in  Petrograd  I 
learned  that  they  were  mutilated  fragments  of  a 
language  nearly  extinct  belonging  to  the  distant  East. 
He  chanted  these  words  in  a  low  sad  voice." 

At  a  word  from  my  friend,  the  hunter  rose  and 
took  down  from  the  wall  a  long  flintlock  gun.  It 
was  carefully  wrapped  in  old  red  cloths.  These  he 
removed,  and  without  speaking  handed  the  weapon 


1 84  THE  VILLAGE 

over  to  me.  The  barrel  was  inlaid  with  silver,  and 
faintly  engraved  upon  it  were  words  in  some  Far 
Eastern  tongue.  Kraychok  returned  to  his  seat  on 
the  couch. 

"  He  used  to  tell  me,"  Tarasov  said,  "  that  this 
gun  was  once  enchanted.  It  had  such  a  quality  that 
if  you  wished  to  kill  any  beast  you  had  only  to  think 
of  such  a  beast  and  it  would  appear  before  you. 
Moreover,  when  you  fired,  the  bullet  was  certain 
to  find  its  mark.  His  father  and  his  grandfather 
had  hunted  with  it  all  their  Hves.  Hence  their  fame 
as  hunters  here.  But  for  himself  the  spell  of  it 
was  broken  by  the  act  of  a  friend.  This  friend,  a 
neighboring  peasant  lad,  was  in  love  with  a  certain 
village  girl;  but  a  handsome  stranger  came  along, 
and  the  girl  soon  ran  away  with  him.  The  discarded 
peasant  lover  came  in  a  fury  to  Kraychok's  hut. 
Kraychok  was  away  at  the  time.  The  friend  took 
the  gun  and  went  into  the  forest,  and  there  he  re- 
peated to  himself,  '  I  wish  to  see  this  man  and  girl! 
I  wish  to  see  this  man  and  girl !  ' —  till  suddenly 
they  both  appeared.  He  pulled  the  trigger.  The 
man  fell  dead  and  the  girl  vanished  instantly  Into 
the  air.  But  then  was  heard  a  beastly  laugh,  and 
out  of  the  shadows  were  bellowed  these  words: 
'  From  to-day  this  gun  shall  have  no  charm !  '  And 
so  it  has  happened,  Kraychok  says.  A  mere  relic 
now,  it  hangs  on  the  wall." 

Presently  we  left  the  hut;  and  with  the  hunter  lead- 
ing the  way,  we  took  a  path  that  led  still  deeper  into 


THE  VILLAGE  185 

the  cool  dim  forest.  Tarasov  talked  to  him  for 
a  while,  but  he  walked  on  without  reply. 

"  I  am  trying  to  persuade  him,"  my  friend  ex- 
plained, turning  to  me,  "  to  take  us  to  his  favorite 
haunt.  Perhaps  he  will.  I  am  not  sure.  The  best 
way  is  to  leave  him  to  walk  ahead,  and  let  him  take 
us  or  not,  as  he  wills." 

"  Tell  me  some  more  about  him,"  I  said.  And 
Tarasov  told  this  story: 

"  He  used  to  say  there  are  many  places  where 
great  treasure  is  hidden  here.  To  get  it,  you  must 
go  and  find  a  certain  magic  flower.  In  the  forest 
is  a  plant  upon  which  such  a  flower  blooms,  once  a 
year  on  the  Eve  of  St.  John's.  You  must  find  this 
plant  and  mark  the  spot  —  and  on  that  mysterious 
evening,  exactly  at  midnight,  you  must  be  there. 
Around  you  you  must  mark  three  circles  with  a 
stick,  to  keep  off  evil  spirits.  Then  you  must  sit 
down  quietly  and  listen  for  the  smallest  sound.  You 
must  work  up  your  courage  to  a  pitch  where  you  will 
not  fear  anything —  for,  as  the  fiery  flower  blooms, 
great  creatures  creep  up  from  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  and  with  hideous  cries  stretch  out  their  claws 
to  seize  the  seething  flower  of  flame.  You  must 
snatch  it  first  —  and  keep  up  your  courage.  For  if 
you  are  a  good  Christian,  he  says,  no  one  of  these 
devils  can  do  you  harm.  You  must  hold  the  flower 
like  a  torch,  look  down  into  the  heaving  earth;  and 
when  you  see  where  the  treasure  lies,  you  must  dig 
quickly  with  your  spade  —  for   if  you   remain   in 


1 86  THE  VILLAGE 

that  spot  too  long,  the  fiery  flower  will  burn  out 
and  leave  you  in  the  hellish  night. 

"  He  had  learned  all  this  from  his  father,  who 
told  him  that  some  day  he  would  meet  an  evil  spirit 
in  the  wood,  and  that  this  ghost  would  lead  him 
for  days  in  great  circles  into  the  forest.  Then  at 
last  he  would  hear  a  laugh,  and  by  that  he  would 
know  he  had  reached  the  spot  where  the  treasure 
lay  buried  in  the  earth. 

"  Well,  and  so  it  happened.  Kraychok  one  day 
saw  a  shape  of  mist,  and  he  felt  a  breath  impelling 
him  on.  So  he  strayed  in  circles  for  many  days. 
Nor  was  he  tired  or  distressed;  for  the  ghost  was 
excellent  company,  whispering  in  a  voice  like  a 
breeze  the  most  amusing  jokes  and  tales.  At  last 
a  sudden  laugh  rang  out,  and  instantly  Kraychok 
stood  quite  still,  for  he  knew  he  had  reached  the 
magic  spot.  It  was  a  wild  place,  a  swamp  full  of 
huge  weeds  at  the  foot  of  a  hill,  with  the  river  flow- 
ing by  below.  As  he  was  standing  motionless  there, 
looking  intently  all  about,  a  strange  feeling  of  cer- 
tainty came  upon  him  in  a  wave  —  and  he  knew 
which  one  of  those  weeds  was  the  plant  on  which 
the  fiery  flower  would  bloom. 

"  He  returned  to  his  home  and  there  resolved  to 
make  the  awful  venture. 

"  So,  upon  the  Eve  of  St.  John's,  Kraychok  started 
from  his  hut.  As  he  had  been  told  by  his  father  to 
do,  he  took  in  his  pocket  a  hunk  of  black  bread  that 


THE  VILLAGE  187 

had  been  made  without  any  salt;  and  he  put  his  right 
boot  on  his  left  foot  and  vice  versa.  From  his  hut 
he  walked  out  slowly  backwards;  and  by  good  luck, 
he  told  me,  he  bumped  into  no  passer-by  —  for  if  he 
had,  the  spell  would  have  been  broken.  Off  he 
walked  alone  through  the  wood,  and  after  many 
hours  he  came  to  the  mystic  swamp. 

"  He  drew  three  circles,  said  some  prayers  and 
tried  to  make  his  heart  feel  strong.  Just  exactly 
at  midnight,  on  the  plant  which  he  was  watching, 
came  a  little  gleam  of  fire.  It  blossomed  like  a  tiny 
spark,  and  then  before  old  Kraychok's  eyes  it  grew 
into  a  flower  of  flame.  As  he  jumped  to  seize  it  in 
his  hand,  he  heard  in  the  thick  darkness  terrific  yells 
and  bellows,  pounding  hoofs.  From  the  hill  an 
enormous  bowlder  came  rolling  down  upon  him. 
He  sprang  to  one  side,  and  with  a  roar  it  crashed 
through  the  trees  and  down  the  bank  and  fell  into 
the  river.  Big  waves  dashed  against  the  banks.. 
And  the  heart  of  Kraychok  grew  like  ice,  for  now 
he  heard  a  teasing  laugh  and  a  thick  bestial  voice 
that  said, 

"  *  You  will  never  go  forth  alive,  my  friend.' 
"  He  did  not  know  how  he  should  get  away. 
Again  he  drew  three  circles,  and  he  prayed  to  the 
good  God  to  make  strong  his  heart  and  protect 
him  on  this  night  of  miracles.  The  howls  and  bel- 
lows still  went  on;  tall  pine  trees  came  crashing 
down.     In  the  blackness  and  the  noise  he  lost  his 


1 88  THE  VILLAGE 

grip  on  the  flower  of  flame.  It  flickered  and  died; 
all  light  was  gone.  He  fell  unconscious  on  the 
ground. 

"  When  he  woke  up,  the  day  had  come.  He  felt 
very  weak  and  as  though  in  a  fever.  He  crept 
down  to  the  river  and  drank  like  a  dog,  and  ate  his 
black  unsalted  bread.  He  wandered  in  circles,  los- 
ing his  way,  but  at  last  in  the  evening  he  came 
back  home." 

Soon  after  Tarasov  had  finished  this  yarn,  the  old 
man  walking  in  front  of  us  turned  and  said  some- 
thing to  my  friend.  We  sat  down  by  a  tree  and 
smoked  for  a  while,  and  by  dint  of  a  little  urging 
we  drew  from  him  another  tale  —  which  he  re- 
counted slowly,  in  a  gruff  low  monotonous  voice, 
stopping  at  times  and  waiting  while  Tarasov  trans- 
lated for  me. 

"  On  Ladoga  Lake  there  is  a  green  island  which 
lies  very  low,"  he  said.  "  Just  a  green  speck  on 
the  water  it  is.  But  once  there  were  terrible  won- 
ders there.  Then  the  peasants  and  the  fishermen 
came  out  in  boats  from  the  village  on  shore.  They 
brought  a  priest  to  the  island  and  had  a  religious 
procession,  and  prayed  to  Christ  to  stop  such  things, 
such  witcheries  of  ancient  times.  So  the  miracles 
were  stopped,  but  you  found  the  echoes  still.  For 
a  priest  can  stop  some  witcheries;  but  where  human 
blood  has  been  darkly  shed,  where  the  soul  has  been 
torn  from  the  body  without  confession  or  chance  to 
repent,  the  spirit  of  the  victim  must  always  walk 


THE  VILLAGE  189 

about  the  place  where  the  body  is  slowly  rotting 
away.  It  is  hard  for  such  a  soul,  for  the  evil  ghosts 
all  follow  him.  You  hear  the  laughter  of  devils, 
the  groans  of  the  tormented  one;  you  hear  its  slow 
heavy  steps  go  by. 

"  So  it  was  on  that  small  Island.  When  I  went 
to  hunt  wild  ducks  and  geese,  sometimes  when  I  had 
finished  my  hunting  I  would  lie  like  a  dead  man 
on  the  beach  —  all  stiff  and  cold  —  while  secrets 
were  revealed  to  me  —  and  the  autumn  clouds  swept 
over  the  sky." 

Old  Kraychok  paused  for  a  long  time,  staring  off 
among  the  trees.     At  last  he  continued  softly  : 

"  But  then  some  smart  young  students  from  the 
college  in  the  town  came  out  to  hunt  ducks  on  that 
green  island,  and  they  brought  me  as  their  guide. 
They  had  heard  of  the  ancient  wonders,  but  they 
laughed  and  declared  they  felt  at  their  ease.  Town 
people  never  believe  such  things.  Few  of  them  have 
any  faith  in  devils  —  or  even  in  God  and  the  Holy 
Saints.  This  Is  because  they  are  taught  so  much  in 
their  foolish  little  colleges,  and  they  read  so  much 
in  newspapers  and  books,  that  their  souls  grow 
hard  and  dry,  and  become  like  crowded  little  rooms. 
How  can  such  mighty  figures  as  God,  the  Saints,  the 
Devils,  enter  into  such  small  rooms?  So  these  peo- 
ple can  believe  nothing  at  all. 

"  When  these  fellows  came  to  the  Island,  I  told 
them  of  no  miracles,  and  neither  did  the  fishermen, 
for  what  was  the  use  of  trying  to  tell  such  things 


I90  THE  VILLAGE 

to  empty-headed  folk?  They  decided  to  stay  sev- 
eral days.  They  made  fun  of  the  rumor  that  spirits 
were  here.  At  night  they  would  show  how  brave 
they  could  be.  So  the  fishermen  left  us  some  sails 
and  ropes,  and  with  these  we  made  a  tent  upon  a 
level  sandy  beach.  We  had  a  good  day's  hunting; 
we  came  back  tired  to  the  camp  and  had  some  supper; 
and  after  that  we  all  lay  down  in  the  tent  to  sleep. 
The  young  men  tried  to  tease  me  about  my  belief 
in  ghosts  —  but  I  said  nothing  in  reply;  for  as  I  lay 
next  to  the  side  of  the  tent,  already  I  felt  some 
figure  pressing  against  me  from  outside.  I  felt  a 
cold  breath  pass  over  my  face,  and  I  told  myself, 

"  '  Now  it  begins.  Let  us  see  how  these  learned 
fellows  will  feel.' 

"  They  had  stopped  talking  suddenly.  One  by 
one  they  rose  up  and  went  out  of  the  tent;  and 
there  in  whispers  they  confessed  how  some  figure  had 
pressed  on  the  ribs  of  each  one.  As  we  listened,  we 
heard  heavy  steps  on  the  sand  and  groans  like  those 
of  the  winter's  wind;  and  we  heard  strange  laughter, 
too.  Then  these  men  from  the  college  grew  quite 
cold  and  white  with  fear.  I  alone  knew  how  to 
destroy  the  spell.  I  told  them  all  to  listen,  while  I 
began  to  repeat  a  prayer  which  I  had  learned  from 
a  very  old  monk.  And  at  once  the  evil  voices 
ceased."  The  old  man  paused.  He  sat  motionless, 
with  his  back  against  a  tree.  "  And  then  they  went 
back  to  their  college,"  he  said. 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  us  now.     He  was 


THE  VILLAGE  191 

looking  at  the  ground.  He  plucked  up  a  small  plant 
with  pink  berries  and  began  to  study  it  closely. 
Meanwhile,  Tarasov  told  me, 

"  I  knew  one  of  the  fellows  who  made  up  that 
camping  party.  He  was  a  medical  student  then, 
and  later  he  became  the  head  of  a  college  of  veterin- 
ary surgeons.  He  said  that  everything  happened 
that  night  exactly  as  Kraychok  describes.  His  ex- 
planation of  it  was  that  the  old  man's  belief  in  the 
spirits  was  so  strong,  intense  and  real,  that  by 
hypnotic  power  he  imparted  it  to  the  rest. 

"  This  hypnotic  power  of  his  was  amazingly 
strong,"  Tarasov  said.  "  As  I  have  already  told 
you,  he  employed  it  on  the  sick.  And  for  something 
over  thirty  years  he  attended  women  in  childbirth. 
He  would  come  to  a  woman  confined,  and  would 
stand  by  her  bed  and  look  into  her  eyes;  and  slowly 
stroking  her  head,  he  would  say,  '  All  is  still  well. 
You  don't  feel  any  pain.'  He  would  repeat  these 
words  many  times,  in  a  voice  so  kind  and  soothing, 
no  one  could  have  imagined  that  such  a  dirty  un- 
couth man  could  speak  in  such  a  tender  way.  1  have 
watched  the  women's  faces,  and  if  they  did  feel  any 
pain,  they  gave  no  evidence  of  it  at  all.  I  asked 
him  once  where  he  got  this  power.  He  said  that 
in  his  family  it  had  been  handed  down  from  father  to 
son  for  generations. 

"  '  It  came  from  the  depths  of  the  forest,'  he  said. 
Into  a  certain  forest  glade  he  would  go  and  lie  like 
a   dead  man,    and   into   his   spirit  would   pour   the 


192  THE  VILLAGE 

strength  of  the  living  soul  of  this  Russian  land,  a 
soul  made  up  of  the  spirits  of  many  strange  dark 
peoples  who  used  to  live  here  long  ago.  Only  in 
that  one  spot  in  the  forest  is  he  able  to  feel  the  past. 
I  am  going  to  ask  him  to  take  us  there." 

When  Tarasov  spoke  to  him,  at  first  the  old  hunter 
did  not  reply.  Then  suddenly  he  rose  and  said, 
"  We  shall  go."  And  he  started  up  the  path.  We 
walked  for  some  moments  in  silence.  It  was  not 
far,  Tarasov  said.  My  curiosity  deepening,  I  asked 
what  kind  of  a  place  It  was. 

"  Quite  empty  and  silent,"  he  replied.  "  But  you 
told  me  you  wanted  something  deeper  than  the  re- 
ligion of  the  priest.  I  think  you  will  see  and  feel  It 
here." 

We  came  Into  a  clearing  of  two  or  three  acres, 
surrounded  by  tall  silent  pines.  In  the  center  was 
what  I  took  to  be  a  high  narrow  mound  about  eighty 
feet  long,  all  tufted  with  green  grass  and  weeds. 
But  In  order  to  get  a  better  look,  we  climbed  a 
hummock  not  far  away  —  and  there  for  some  time 
we  stood  perfectly  still.  For  from  this  point  the 
mound  appeared  as  a  prodigious  granite  figure,  hewn 
with  a  crude  terrific  art  to  depict  a  woman  in  child- 
birth. 

After  the  silence,  Tarasov  said, 

*'  Very  few  of  the  peasants  will  ever  come  here. 
Kraychok  says  that  he  heard  of  it  first  from  his  father 
—  who  told  him  only  a  part.  So  much  secret  knowl- 
edge, he  sadly  declares,  has  been  lost  forever  to  the 


THE  VILLAGE  193 

world  by  this  process  of  handing  it  down  by  word 
of  mouth  from  father  to  son.  This  figure  has  been 
here,  he  believes,  '  for  many  thousand  silent  years.' 
It  reveals  its  secrets  only  to  those  like  himself  who 
go  into  a  trance,  and  '  dare  for  a  time  to  join  the 
dead.' 

"  He  first  brought  me  here  when  I  was  a  boy.  At 
that  time,  young  and  impressionable,  I  had  an  ex- 
perience that  could  not  come  in  middle  age.  I  re- 
member it  vividly  still.  I  felt  great  steps  that  shook 
the  ground,  and  I  heard  my  name  called  out.  This 
was  followed  by  an  enormous  laugh  that  echoed 
against  the  forest  walls.  In  terror  I  cried,  '  Who  is 
there?'  I  heard  old  Kraychok  muttering  prayers, 
and  the  whole  world  grew  suddenly  dark.  .  .  . 
When  I  regained  my  consciousness,  I  was  lying  on 
the  ground.  He  was  slowly  striking  my  head  and 
repeating,  '  All  is  well,  little  brother.'  There  was 
still  a  stern  wild  light  in  his  eyes,  but  his  voice  was 
only  sad  and  kind:  '  You  are  too  little  to  He  with 
the  dead.'  " 

Again  we  were  silent  for  some  moments.  Then 
Kraychok  began  to  speak: 

"  In  old  times,  here  was  a  famous  place  where 
foreigners  came  from  the  far  seas.  They  brought 
heathen  priests  who  were  so  wise  they  knew  the 
darkest  secrets.  And  here  were  done  many  bloody 
things,  for  they  made  human  sacrifice.  This 
woman's  great  womb  was  a  flaming  cave,  and  back 
to  the  mighty  Mother  of  Life  they  gave  the  chil- 


194  THE  VILLAGE 

dren  she  had  borne.  In  this  there  was  a  fearful 
meaning.  If  a  man  lives,  so  too  he  must  die.  Do 
not  think  that  what  you  see  is  only  a  granite  figure 

—  for  in  this  spot  many  hundreds  of  mortals  have 
shrieked  and  given  their  souls  to  God,  and  their 
spirits  have  never  gone  away.  This  is  a  place  of 
mystery,  where  the  deepest  things  in  life  have  been 
born." 

He  stopped.  He  was  standing  rigid  now.  He 
went  on  in  a  voice  intense  and  low: 

"  Any  fool  from  the  city  coming  here  will  feel 
his  knees  grow  weak  with  fear,  for  there  is  some- 
thing here  that  cries,  '  Stop,  you  fool,  and  look  into 
the  depths  of  life  and  death  beneath  you.'  Here 
this  is  plainly  to  be  seen.  But  they  do  not  know, 
these  fools,  that  in  all  towns  and  cities,  too,  there 
are  such  ancient  figures  as  these.  Only  there  they 
are  invisible.  Men,  who  rush  about  in  their  haste 
and  worry  over  little  things,  have  trampled  such 
great  figures  down  or  buried  them  beneath  the 
dust.     But  the  souls  of  the  figures  still  are  there 

—  even  on  busy  city  streets.  They  live  still  in  the 
hearts  of  men.  They  only  sleep.  At  times  they 
rise,  and  then  wild  passions  are  let  loose.  In  Petro- 
grad  is  revolution;  the  street  gutters  flow  with  blood. 
And  all  over  the  world  there  is  war  to-day.  The 
earth  is  black  with  armies,  the  winds  are  filled  with 
voices  —  screaming,  roaring.  Guns,  they  say.  But 
they  are  not  guns."     Old  Kraychok's  voice  was  soft 


THE  VILLAGE  195 

and  low.  "  They  are  the  voices  of  great  spirits, 
gods  and  devils,  still  alive  in  the  hearts  of  men. 
So  it  is.  And  what  will  be  the  future  nobody  in 
the  world  can  tell.  For  the  future  is  a  mystic  thing, 
bound  with  iron  to  the  past.  And  the  past  we  do 
not  understand. 

"  For  there  have  been  more  people  on  the  earth 
than  drops  of  water  in  the  sea.  And  they  have 
found  deep  secrets;  and  the  very  deepest  things  have 
never  been  written  down  in  books,  for  they  were  not 
found  by  the  city  men  but  by  those  who  went  alone 
under  the  sky  even  when  the  storm  was  dark,  and 
into  the  blackest  part  of  the  forest  even  on  the  cold- 
est nights.  Such  secrets  have  been  handed  down  by 
a  tongue  that  speaks  to  another  ear  —  as  I  am  speak- 
ing to  you  now."  His  voice  was  barely  more  than  a 
whisper. 

"  But  I  can  tell  you  little,"  old  Kraychok  ended 
sadly,  "  for  I  am  one  of  the  last  of  such  men,  and 
little  has  been  revealed  to  me.  All  the  world  has 
turned  to  books  and  the  deep  things  are  forgotten. 
Now  for  just  a  little  while,  the  fools  are  frightened 
by  what  they  see  break  loose  in  the  wild  years  of 
war.  But  soon  they  will  go  back  again  to  their 
books  and  little  colleges." 

Abruptly  he  turned  from  us.  We  followed  him 
down  the  hummock  and  across  the  clearing.  Back 
under  the  tall  silent  pines,  he  did  not  speak  as  he 
led  the  way.      I  was  thinking  of  all  that  I  had  heard 


196  THE  VILLAGE 

and  of  the  huge  symbol  I  had  seen,  of  life  endlessly 
renewing  itself  in  agony  and  bloody  sweat  —  as 
Russia  seems  to  be  doing,  these  days. 

"  The  future  is  a  mystic  thing,  bound  with  iron 
to  the  past.     And  the  past  we  do  not  understand." 


CHAPTER  V 


AS  I  look  back  on  the  village  now,  the  sorcerer 
looms  in  my  memories  as  a  stronger  figure  than 
the  priest;  but  in  the  latter  half  of  my  stay,  I  came 
to  know  another  man  whose  rugged  force  and  vision 
of  life  made  a  still  deeper  impression.  He  was  the 
school  teacher.  The  weather-beaten  frame  house 
where  he  lived,  with  the  blue  paint  nearly  washed 
away  by  many  Russian  winters,  stood  on  the  high 
river  bluff  very  close  to  the  home  of  my  friend. 
There  he  lived  with  his  stout  good-natured  wife  and 
an  old  half-witted  crone  whom  the  neighboring  peas- 
ants called  a  witch,  but  with  whom  the  teacher  was 
intimate  friends.  As  a  rule  we  found  him  working, 
mowing  the  hay  in  his  small  yard  or  sharpening  his 
shining  scythe,  tinkering  in  his  tool  house  or  mending 
a  fish  net  spread  on  the  grass. 

He  wore  a  loose  white  cotton  blouse,  with  a 
thick  white  cord  at  the  waist.  There  were  sandals 
on  his  feet,  and  a  round  cap  of  brown  leather  fitted 
close  to  the  back  of  his  head.  He  had  small  ears, 
a  long  powerful  face  with  receding  chin  and  a  heavy 
mustache,  a  high  forehead,  a  long  straight  nose  and 
two  little  blue  eyes  that  were  still  amazingly  young. 

197 


198  THE  VILLAGE 

His  voice,  though  harsh  and  guttural,  was  almost 
always  very  low,  and  as  a  rule  he  spoke  rapidly. 
His  hair  was  exceedingly  soft  and  fine;  it  was  brown 
with  only  a  touch  of  gray.  His  face,  his  voice  and 
all  his  movements  were  like  those  of  a  man  in  his 
prime. 

One  day,  when  we  went  down  to  the  river  for  our 
usual  morning  swim,  we  found  him  there  before 
us;  and  the  muscular  strength  in  his  lean  brown 
body  made  me  envy  him  his  life.  He  dove  like  a 
youngster;  with  vigorous  strokes  he  swam  on  his 
side  out  into  the  river,  snorting  and  grunting.  After 
our  swim,  we  went  up  and  had  tea  together.  Later 
we  went  into  the  garden  to  sit  on  the  grass  and 
smoke  cigarettes.  Across  the  river,  high  up  on  a 
hill,  stood  the  big  school-house  he  had  built,  dominat- 
ing the  neighborhood.  It  all  comes  back  to  me 
vividly  now  —  the  quiet  garden,  the  fragrant  breeze, 
the  big  black  rooks  in  the  trees  above  us.  Little 
by  little,  we  drew  from  the  teacher  the  story  of  his 
work  and  life : 

"I  was  born  in  1865,  some  two  hundred  miles 
to  the  south  of  here,  in  a  village  about  half-way  be- 
tween Petrograd  and  Riga.  My  father  was  a  peas- 
ant, but  he  also  kept  the  village  store;  and  saving 
his  money,  bit  by  bit,  he  had  at  last  acquired  a  farm 
of  sixty-nine  desatinas  (about  170  acres).  I  went 
to  school  in  the  village  and  later  to  the  gymnasium 
(high  school)  in  the  town  nearby.  But  I  did  not 
finish  out  my  course.     Instead  I  went  to  Petrograd, 


THE  VILLAGE  199 

to  a  training  school  for  teachers.  I  graduated  at 
eighteen,  and  since  that  time  I  have  taught  school 
in  this  province  —  for  thirty-four  years. 

"  In  the  first  village  where  I  taught,  the  peasants 
were  hostile  to  the  schools,  as  places  where  their 
children  learned  nothing  of  real  use  to  the  farm. 
But  I  thought,  '  I  will  show  how  a  school  can  af- 
fect the  lives  not  only  of  children  but  parents,  too, 
in  practical  ways.  I  will  make  my  school  the  very 
heart  and  center  of  the  neighborhood.'  "  The 
shrewd  little  blue  eyes  of  the  teacher  twinkled 
reminiscently.  "  I  had  big  thoughts  when  I  was 
young. 

"  First  of  all,  I  wanted  to  prove  to  them  the  real 
profit  to  be  had  by  learning  to  work  together.  And 
so,  in  a  village  near  Schliisselburg,  I  started  a  co- 
operative beehive  association.  I  persuaded  twelve 
peasants  to  try  my  plan.  Each  one  put  in  a  rouble 
to  pay  for  the  instruction,  and  each  peasant  bought 
one  hiv-e.  We  were  successful  from  the  start.  One 
half  the  first  year's  profits  was  divided  up  among 
ourselves;  the  remainder  went  into  the  business. 
The  government  inspector  of  schools,  who  by  good 
luck  was  a  liberal  man,  noticed  my  work  and  gave 
me  permission  to  extend  it  farther.  I  started  small 
peasant  cooperatives  in  orchards  and  vegetable 
gardens;  and  these,  too,  had  a  good  success.  Mean- 
while, the  children  helped  in  the  work;  and  so  I 
taught  them  not  only  about  gardens,  orchards  and 
beehives,  but  also  the  value  of  cooperation.     I  made 


200  THE  VILLAGE 

them  see  what  miracles  the  bees  could  work  by  com- 
ing together  in  a  hive.  In  our  school  garden,  the 
second  year,  we  grew  strawberries  nearly  as  large 
as  eggs.  The  boys  and  girls  grew  absorbed  in  these 
jobs,  they  almost  all  worked  hard  for  me,  and  so 
I  had  a  splendid  chance  to  mold  their  minds  before 
they  should  harden  and  narrow  into  the  ignorant 
ways,  the  sharp  suspicions  and  jealousies  that  pre- 
vailed among  the  peasants  there.  I  stayed  in  that 
village  for  many  years. 

"  Then  my  friend,  the  Inspector  of  schools,  was  re- 
placed by  a  man  who  looked  on  me  as  a  dangerous 
reformer.  I  was  transferred  to  this  neighborhood, 
to  a  school  even  humbler  than  the  last.  But  here  I 
started  the  same  kind  of  work.  The  priest,  Sergei 
Gregorovitch,  who  had  come  some  years  before  me, 
had  already  built  his  school  in  the  village  down 
the  river;  and  he  was  prompt  to  give  me  his  sympathy 
and  good  advice.  I  needed  all  that  he  could  give, 
for  the  peasants  were  drunkards,  a  lousy  lot,  and 
the  little  school-house  to  which  I  had  come  stunk 
like  a  pigsty  in  August.  Gardening  was  Impossible, 
for  we  had  but  a  tiny  plot  of  land.  So  I  used  some 
money  of  my  own,  and  with  the  priest's  help  I  took 
a  lease  on  two  desatlnas  of  land  nearby.  There 
we  started  our  garden,  our  orchard  and  our  bee- 
hives. In  the  winter  I  taught  the  children  from 
books;  in  the  spring  and  summer  we  worked  out 
of  doors.  And  after  three  years  of  practical  work, 
the  attitude  of  the  peasants  toward  the  school  began 


THE  VILLAGE  201 

to  change.  I  had  kept  some  of  the  children  with 
me  there  all  summer  long.  Those  from  a  distance 
lived  with  me.  And  now  as  they  grew  older  they 
showed  a  knowledge  of  orchards  and  gardens  that 
brought  them  excellent  wages  from  the  big  land- 
owners nearby.  LThis  made  their  parents  approve 
of  me. 

"  I  tried  to  give  talks  to  the  parents  on  modern 
farming  methods  and  on  cooperation.  At  first  I 
did  not  have  success,  for  they  were  still  suspicious 
of  all  that  came  from  the  printed  page.  The  revo- 
lution of  1905  brought  a  change  in  this  attitude. 
Many  peasant  deputies  were  elected  to  the  Duma 
then,  and  the  people  in  the  villages  felt  that  they 
had  a  voice  in  the  nation  and  must  learn  to  use  it 
well,  in  order  to  get  the  land  reforms  that  they  so 
hungrily  desired.  Many  peasants  began  to  learn  to 
read  and  to  look  on  books  with  more  respect  —  but 
only  on  books  that  dealt  with  the  land. 

"  Meanwhile  there  had  grown  up  in  my  mind 
the  dream  of  building  a  larger  school,  where  in  addi- 
tion to  class  rooms  there  should  be  work  shops  of 
all  kinds,  to  accommodate  two  hundred  children. 
One  day  I  had  read  in  a  paper  of  how  in  the  United 
States  they  were  building  big  school-houses  of  this 
kind,  even  in  new  districts  where  as  yet  there  were 
few  children.  That  had  given  me  my  idea.  And 
now,  though  I  had  little  money,  I  began  to  make 
drawings  for  the  new  school.  I  had  plenty  of 
time  to  think  out  my  plan,  for  it  took  me  eight  years 


202  THE  VILLAGE 

to  get  money  enough  so  that  I  could  start  to  build. 
From  my  salary  and  from  my  school  fund  I  saved 
about  300  roubles,  and  that  was  the  beginning.  I 
had  some  beehives  of  my  own,  and  I  used  to  sell 
the  honey.  Rouble  by  rouble  the  school  fund  grew. 
"  The  priest,  Sergei  Gregorovitch,  was  my  great- 
est friend,  those  days.  What  a  man  of  dreams  he 
was,  and  how  we  schemed  for  the  neighborhood ! 
Long  after  midnight,  sitting  in  bed  reading  a  book 
or  drawing  my  plans,  I  would  hear  a  knock  upon 
my  door.  For  the  tall  ragged  priest,  striding  over 
the  fields  from  some  hut  where  he  had  given  the 
sacrament  to  a  dying  parishioner,  and  seeing  the 
hght  in  my  window  now,  would  drop  in  for  a  little 
talk.  I  would  jump  out  of  bed  and  open  the  door, 
and  we  would  talk  until  daylight.  The  world  sees 
few  men  with  a  genius  like  his.  In  twenty  years  he 
burned  out  his  life  —  for  that  is  the  way  with  some 
Russians  —  but  what  light  and  warmth  he  shed 
around  him,  and  what  fun  he  had  through  it  all !  He 
was  impatient  of  any  delay.  While  pushing  rapidly 
at  that  time  the  work  on  his  small  hospital,  and  a 
dozen  things  besides,  he  eagerly  helped  in  the  scheme 
for  my  work.  In  such  night  visits  we  would  bend 
together  over  that  plan  of  mine,  and  change  it  and 
figure  and  argue  out  our  new  ideas  for  a  real  school 
— '  school  of  life,'  he  called  it.  Then  he  would  stop 
for  stories  or  jokes  to  drive  home  his  arguments. 
And  so  the  light  of  my  lamp  would  fade,  as  the  dawn 
came  in  through  the  window. 


THE  VILLAGE  203 

"  He  helped  me  In  collecting  funds.  We  drew  up 
a  subscription  list,  and  I  went  through  the  district 
begging  the  land-owners  and  the  merchants  to  sub- 
scribe. 1  pounded  the  idea  into  their  heads.  Some 
gave  cash,  and  others  promised  building  materials 
free  of  charge.  I  made  several  trips  to  Petrograd, 
and  the  Ministry  of  Education  at  last  consented  to 
grant  me  a  credit  of  four  thousand  roubles.  This 
caused  a  great  sensation  here  and  had  at  once  a 
good  effect.  Our  local  iron  merchant,  who  had 
promised  three  hundred  roubles'  worth  of  sheet  iron 
and  other  material,  now  when  he  saw  how  our  fame 
was  spreading,  agreed  to  raise  his  subscription  to  a 
thousand  roubles.  The  priest  had  a  hand  in  per- 
suading him,  and  we  two  had  a  celebration  that 
night. 

"  My  friend  the  priest  —  how  well  he  knew  men ! 
—  gave  me  an  excellent  idea.  It  was  to  make  use 
of  the  rivalry  between  our  own  big  village  and  the 
one  ten  miles  down  the  river.  When  our  rival  had 
started  a  fire  brigade,  we  had  at  once  responded  by 
putting  In  electric  lights  —  and  now  when  they  built 
a  cinema  theater,  I  urged  that  we  must  beat  them 
by  putting  up  a  school-house  that  would  make  them 
groan  with  envy.  I  organized  a  Building  Com- 
mittee,   composed   of   all   our   leading   lights.      My 

Honorary  Chairman  was  at  first  Prince  C ,  the 

Marshal  of  Nobility  here;  but  later  I  decided  to  put 
some  one  else  In  his  place.  For  I  soon  found  it 
profitable  to  play  upon  the  jealousies  among  these 


204  THE  VILLAGE 

leading  lights  of  ours.  On  the  iron  merchant  I 
tried  it  first.  One  night,  when  he  consented  to  open 
up  a  credit  for  another  thousand  roubles,  I  took  the 
written  agreement  and  added  another  zero  very 
firmly  to  the  sum ;  and  when  he  stared  at  me  dumb- 
founded, I  leaned  over  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  con- 
fidential tone. 

*' '  The  Marshal  of  Nobility  is  just  about  to  re- 
sign as  Honorary  Chairman  of  the  Building  Com- 
mittee,' I  said.  '  And  I  am  almost  certain  that  you 
are  the  one  to  take  his  place.' 

"  The  merchant  then  swelled  up  with  pride,  for 
such  a  position  would  make  his  wife  the  first  lady 
for  miles  around.  It  ended  in  his  agreeing  to  leave 
on  the  extra  cipher.  Ten  thousand  roubles  for  the 
place  of  Honorary  Chairman  ! 

"  Not  long  after  that,  I  had  a  talk  with  another 
merchant  here,  who  was  planning  to  build  a  church. 
I  made  him  see  that  a  school-house  could  do  even 
more  for  God.  I  showed  him  how  my  plan  would 
bring  prosperity  to  the  neighborhood,  and  how  a 
grateful  people  would  look  up  to  the  benefactors  who 
had  brought  this  change  in  their  lives.  Before  I  left, 
the  merchant  had  promised  an  enormous  sum. 

"  Then  I  went  to  the  iron  merchant,  who  was  so 
furious  at  the  news  that  he  increased  his  own  contri- 
bution; for  as  Honorary  Chairman  he  felt  that  he 
must  lead  the  list.  He  agreed  to  finish  the  whole 
job  with  his  own  money  from  then  on,  if  in  the  prin- 
cipal room  of  the  building  his  portrait  could  be  hung 


THE  VILLAGE  205 

on  the  wall  with  a  motto  underneath  it  to  say, 
*  Here  stands  the  creator  of  this  school.'  I  knew 
that  if  I  agreed  to  this  scheme,  the  other  donors 
would  rise  in  a  rage  and  ruin  our  plan.  So  I  had 
to  refuse  his  offer  and  go  on  begging  smaller 
amounts. 

"  At  last  the  building  was  finished.  It  was  not 
what  I  had  dreamed  of,  for  the  plans  had  changed 
from  time  to  time  according  to  the  varying  amounts 
of  money  we  secured.  It  had  taken  eleven  years 
in  all,  and  I  had  written  so  many  letters  that  once, 
when  I  weighed  them  just  for  fun,  they  tipped  the 
scale  at  seven  poods  (thirty-seven  pounds).  Still, 
it  had  been  a  pretty  good  job. 

"  But  then  a  joke  was  played  on  me.  For  I  had 
built  a  school  so  large,  the  authorities  in  Petrograd 
decided  that  the  head  teacher  here  must  be  a  very 
intelligent  man  with  full  university  training.  They 
got  such  a  fellow,  and  I  dropped  out  and  went  to  a 
town  some  distance  away,  where  I  obtained  a  teach- 
er's job  more  fitted  to  my  standing." 

2 

This  ended  his  first  talk  with  us.  We  went  to 
the  school-house  that  same  day,  but  he  did  not  offer 
to  come  along.  High  up  on  the  bare  hillside,  it 
looked  huge,  crude,  unfinished  still;  and  after  the 
story  we  had  heard,  it  seemed  to  my  eyes  the  mere 
shell  of  a  school.  The  creating  spirit  was  not  there. 
It  was  empty,   for  this  was  vacation  time,  but  we 


2o6  THE  VILLAGE 

found  the  new  principal  installed  in  comfortable  liv- 
ing quarters  at  one  end  of  the  building.  The  walls 
of  his  large  living-room  had  been  smoothly  plas- 
tered, there  was  a  rug  upon  the  floor  and  white 
painted  easy  chairs.  He  himself  was  a  little  man 
with  a  rather  pleasant  affable  face.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  white  duck  suit  with  brass  buttons  on  the  jacket, 
the  uniform  of  his  government  rank.  He  wore  sil- 
ver spectacles;  he  had  a  diminutive  blond  mustache. 
In  a  pleased  contented  way  he  talked  to  us  about 
his  work. 

He  had  about  ninety  pupils  of  from  eight  to  thir- 
teen years  of  age.  They  were  taught  reading,  writ- 
ing, arithmetic,  history  and  geography,  "  all  under 
the  rules  prescribed  in  due  form  by  the  Ministry 
of  Education."  The  teaching  staff  was  composed 
of  himself  and  three  regular  teachers,  he  said.  The 
new  priest  in  the  neighboring  village  (the  same 
little  man  with  whom  we  had  talked)  came  and 
managed  religious  instruction  here  in  a  most  en- 
lightened spirit.  And  besides,  from  the  town  near- 
by, special  instructors  came  twice  a  week  to  teach 
singing,  gymnastics  and  drawing;  and  also  French 
and  German  to  the  older  pupils.  In  addition, 
there  were  in  the  basement  two  rough  honest  chaps 
of  the  peasant  class,  a  blacksmith  and  a  carpenter, 
who  taught  such  work  to  some  of  the  boys.  This 
basement  work  had  been  the  idea  of  a  fine  old  coun- 
try school-teacher  who  had  helped  to  build  the  school- 
house,  he  said. 


THE  VILLAGE  207 

The  pleasant  little  man  talked  on,  but  in  spite  of 
my  efforts  to  listen  to  him,  he  kept  melting  away 
into  thin  air;  and  in  his  place  there  appeared  in  this 
room  an  uncouth  figure,  sinewy,  brown,  in  a  peasant's 
white  blouse  and  a  pair  of  old  trousers,  with  sandals 
on  his  strong  bare  feet.  I  kept  seeing  his  hairy 
throat  and  neck,  burned  by  the  sun  in  a  life  out  of 
doors,  his  lean  powerful  face  and  shrewd  blue  eyes; 
and  above  all  else,  his  long  and  narrow,  muscular 
hands  —  with  a  jagged  scar  on  the  left  wrist.  He 
had  broken  that  wrist  while  blasting  out  the  cellar 
of  this  building. 

3 

Our  second  talk  with  him  was  at  night.  We  came 
into  his  yard  about  nine  o'clock,  in  the  rapidly  deep- 
ening dusk,  and  found  him  mowing  with  a  scythe. 
He  had  been  fishing  that  afternoon,  and  the  long 
coarse  net  he  had  used  was  spread  out  on  the  grass 
to  dry.  We  sat  on  a  log  bench  under  a  tree.  There 
was  a  chill  of  night  in  the  air;  but  the  teacher  sat 
in  his  thin  white  blouse,  which  was  open  at  his  hairy 
chest;  and  with  his  bare  sandaled  feet  in  the  tall 
grass  now  wet  with  dew,  he  appeared  to  me  to  be 
feeling  particularly  cozy.  We  spoke  about  the 
schoolhouse  first. 

"  I  hope  those  stoves  in  the  class  rooms  are  big 
enough,"  the  teacher  said.  "  I  had  planned  a  cen- 
tral heating  plant  in  the  basement,  with  steam  boilers. 
This  was  to  have  run  a  dynamo,  too,  to  supply  the 


2o8  THE  VILLAGE 

whole  school  with  plenty  of  light  in  the  dark  days 
of  winter.  The  man  in  charge  was  to  have  had 
the  older  boys  as  his  helpers,  and  they  would  have 
learned  from  him  at  first  hand  about  steam  and  elec- 
tric power  — '  so  that  when  they  grew  to  be  men  they 
would  demand  and  know  how  to  use  the  big  steam 
tractors  and  other  machines  that  we  ought  to  have  on 
all  our  farms.  The  Russians  need  to  learn  such 
things.  I  built  that  school  in  such  a  way  that  any 
room  could  become  a  shop.  And  I  wanted  special 
teachers  there  —  blacksmiths,  carpenters,  plumbers, 
basket  weavers,  printers. 

"  This  autumn,"  he  continued,  "  I  mean  to  start 
all  over  again,  with  a  small  agricultural  school  of 
my  own.  The  schoolhouse  will  not  be  large,  but 
instead  of  having  the  blacksmith  there  I  shall  send 
a  few  of  my  boys  to  the  village  blacksmith  shop;  and 
there  they  will  learn  better,  because  in  a  more  prac- 
tical way.  Besides,  it  will  interest  them  more.  For 
almost  any  youngster  will  hang  around  a  blacksmith 
shop,  while  if  you  bring  the  shop  to  the  school,  im- 
mediately it  becomes  a  class,  and  the  boy  will  soon 
begin  to  yawn.  I  shall  send  some  boys  to  the  car- 
penter, too.  That  is  my  new  plan.  A  small  school- 
house,  where  we  teach  mainly  the  primary  studies 
out  of  books;  but  all  around,  real  shops  and  farms 
where  the  boys  can  work  and  earn  money,  and  yet 
where  I  can  have  some  control,  and  so  Inject  little 
by  little  new  methods,  new  tools  and  new  machines 
into  the  work  of  the  neighborhood.     I  want  to  do 


THE  VILLAGE  209 

the  same  thing  with  the  girls.  There  are  some  peas- 
ant women  who  are  good  cooks,  and  others  who  do 
fine  sewing  and  weaving.  They  must  be  teachers  for 
our  girls." 

While  he  was  talking,  every  few  minutes  along 
the  little  country  road  peasant  women,  girls  and 
boys  came  by  like  ghosts,  silently  in  their  bare  feet. 
Two  passed  in  the  semi-darkness  now,  and  they 
had  some  children  with  them.  The  group  went  by 
without  a  sound,  mere  shadows  moving  in  the  dark. 

"  These  people  have  so  much  in  them,"  our  friend 
continued  softly,  "  things  you  would  not  notice,  be- 
cause they  keep  so  much  to  themselves.  But  among 
them  are  natural  teachers,  and  with  their  help  I  shall 
build  my  new  school.  How  stupid  it  is  to  teach  only 
with  books.  That  of  course  is  the  easy  way;  for  the 
peasants,  having  no  faith  in  mere  books,  soon  stop 
sending  their  children  to  school;  so  the  work  of  the 
teacher  is  made  light,  and  he  can  snooze  the  whole 
day  long.  But  I  think  that  the  teacher,  both  day 
and  night,  should  be  the  most  wide-awake  man  in 
the  village.  The  eyes  of  his  spirit  should  never 
close.  He  should  do  the  hard  thing,  he  should  study 
the  people,  old  and  young,  and  find  what  is  in  them 
and  build  upon  that. 

"  I  want  to  dig  the  treasures  not  only  out  of  the 
present  here  but  out  of  the  deep  buried  past.  This 
neighborhood  is  a  wonderful  place  for  a  teacher  of 
real  history.  It  was  the  very  heart  and  center  of 
our  early  Russian  life.     Wherever  you  dig  you  find 


2IO  THE  VILLAGE 

old  relics.  I  made  a  little  start  at  such  work.  In 
certain  places  I  knew  about,  I  used  to  dig  with  the 
children.  How  hard  they  would  dig!  It  was  an 
adventure !  Some  days  we  would  work  far  into 
the  twihght.  Bones  and  weapons,  strange  old  tools, 
came  out  of  the  earth  to  reveal  to  us  the  life  of  the 
past.  With  these  we  started  a  museum.  And  I 
mean  to  start  another  one  now,  combined  with  a 
village  library.  Here,  as  they  learn  to  dig  in  the 
ground,  so  too  they  will  learn  to  dig  in  books,  for 
the  real  big  treasures  of  the  past.  A  teacher  must 
be  always  there,  whose  job  it  shall  be  to  give  out 
books  to  the  children  and  the  parents  alike.  Many 
village  libraries  have  been  started  in  Russia  of  late 
years,  but  most  of  them  simply  give  out  books  with- 
out studying  the  readers.  And  this  is  a  stupid  waste. 
The  teacher  should  find  what  each  reader  wants, 
what  kind  of  books  appeal  to  him  most;  then  plan  a 
course  to  suit  his  needs,  and  so  lead  him  slowly  along 
the  path  —  not  a  straight  but  a  very  crooked  path, 
that  goes  winding  up  a  hillside.  For  this  is  educa- 
tion. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  lectures  there  at  night,  and 
classes  for  the  parents;  and  cinema  pictures  every 
week,  to  spread  a  knowledge  of  foreign  lands.  Our 
peasants  should  learn  of  America.  This  is  a  most 
important  point.  Every  school  should  teach  Eng- 
lish, every  library  should  have  a  good  stock  of 
English  and  American  books,  to  offset  the  ones  that 
the  Germans  keep  handing  out  as  gifts  to  us.     I  tell 


THE  VILLAGE  211 

you  their  agents  have  gone  about  for  years  to  village 
libraries  and  schools.  Those  fellows  are  zealots; 
they  work  day  and  night.  Have  you  no  such  zealots 
in  your  land?  Why  don't  you  send  them  over  here? 
If  you  believe  in  liberty  as  the  Germans  believe  in 
their  devil's  Kultur,  you  will  come  over  by  thousands 
and  prove  your  belief  by  the  things  you  do.  You 
had  a  great  man,  Lincoln.  You  should  make  his 
story  known  in  every  Russian  school-house.  Each 
time  that  a  German  speaks  of  his  Kaiser,  one  of  your 
people  should  be  on  the  spot,  to  say, 

"  '  Now,  brothers,  let  me  tell  you  of  a  great  Amer- 
ican peasant.     Abraham  Lincoln  was  his  name.' 

"  But  stories  will  not  be  enough.  It  is  practical 
work  we  need.  There  is  no  use  in  preaching  to  these 
Russian  peasants.  You  must  prove  to  them  by  ac- 
tual deeds  what  progress  and  real  science  can  do 
for  their  farms  and  villages. 

"  And  the  lack  of  such  practical  teaching  is  to 
blame  for  the  state  of  our  schools.  What  a  scheme 
for  popular  education  was  started  all  over  Russia  in 
1874!  The  Town  Councils  and  the  Zemstvos  (dis- 
trict legislatures),  composed  of  well-meaning  liberal 
men,  prepared  a  truly  colossal  plan,  all  done  up  in 
documents  nicely  tied  with  ribbons,  a  scheme  for  the 
education  of  every  boy  and  girl  in  the  land.  But 
the  funds  were  misused,  and  the  amount  for  teachers' 
salaries  was  so  low  that  the  average  teacher  they 
secured  was  a  poor  specimen,  dry  as  dust.  More- 
over, they  taught  the  children  only  reading,  writing, 


212  THE  VILLAGE 

arithmetic.  Nothing  that  would  help  on  the  farm. 
In  the  school-house  not  a  breath  of  life.  And  the 
peasants  soon  lost  interest. 

"  Some  of  the  peasants  fiercely  hoped  for  better 
lives  for  their  children,  and  so  they  drove  them  still 
to  the  schools,  in  the  hope  that  by  all  this  scratching 
with  pens  they  might  learn  to  be  volost  (township) 
clerks.  But  seeing  no  such  practical  benefit  to  be 
had  for  the  girls,  the  peasants  kept  their  daughters 
at  home.  And  by  doing  this,  they  held  back  the 
whole  nation.  For  when  you  educate  a  boy  it  is  only 
one  man  you  are  training,  while  when  you  instruct 
a  girl  you  are  molding  a  whole  family  —  for  every- 
thing that  she  has  learned  she  will  gradually  teach 
to  her  children. 

"  So  the  work  went  limping  on.  A  hundred  mil- 
lion peasants  —  they  called  them  muzhiks  in  those 
days,  and  our  poor  little  Czar  even  called  them  that 
to  the  very  time  of  his  downfall.  They  were  dirty, 
poor  and  ignorant,  many  of  them  soaked  with  drink; 
and  few  nice  people  would  soil  their  hands  by  dipping 
into  such  a  swamp.  I  remember  the  first  school 
where  I  taught  —  the  children  with  their  rags  and 
dirt,  vermin,  sickness,  rotting  teeth;  they  were  always 
spitting  and  coughing  about;  you  could  hang  an  ax 
on  the  air  in  that  room.  So  the  well-to-do  people 
kept  away. 

"  Most  of  the  Russian  landowners  were  opposed 
to  the  very  idea  of  such  schools,  for  they  wanted 
to  keep  the  peasants  down.     In  the  dark  old  days  of 


THE  VILLAGE  213 

serfdom,  their  estates  had  been  run  by  slave  labor 
so  cheap  that  they  did  not  have  to  introduce  modern 
farm  methods  or  machines.  And  when  at  the  Eman- 
cipation in  1 86 1,  the  government  of  the  Old  Regime 
paid  for  each  serf  that  was  set  free,  the  landowners 
wasted  the  money  abroad,  to  such  a  degree  that  in 
foreign  lands  the  very  name  of  Russian  came  to  mean 
a  squanderer.  This  money  paid  to  them  for  their 
slaves  went  into  German  health  resorts  founded  ex- 
pressly to  cure  Russians  who  had  grown  sick  in  Paris 
cafes.  In  the  course  of  a  generation  most  of  our 
large  landowners  had  become  exceedingly  poor.  At 
the  time  of  which  I  speak,  they  needed  cheap  labor  on 
their  estates  in  order  to  make  two  ends  meet.  And 
they  were  afraid  that  real  peasant  schools  would 
raise  the  price  of  this  labor. 

"  This  was  not  true  of  all  the  landowners.  Some 
were  well-meaning,  progressive  men  all  bubbling 
over  with  ideals  —  but  most  of  these  chaps  were  im- 
practical. They  spoke  many  fine  words  about  edu- 
cation, but  never  took  decisive  steps  to  bring  to  the 
Russian  peasant  the  knowledge  that  he  needed  in 
order  to  improve  his  life.  The  Zemstvos  were  al- 
most wholly  in  the  hands  of  such  people  as  these. 
And  although  at  the  Zemstvo  meetings  there  were  a 
few  peasant  delegates,  they  were  too  abashed  to 
speak  in  the  presence  of  such  fine  company.  They 
sat  with  their  huge  dirty  beards  pressed  against  the 
table,  and  only  now  and  then  did  they  show  the  indig- 
nation within  them.     This  indignation  would  break 


214  THE  VILLAGE 

out  whenever  any  new  plan  was  proposed  for  spend- 
ing public  money;  for  this  money  came  mainly  from 
taxes  levied  on  the  peasants  themselves;  and  because 
the  peasant  delegates  knew  by  sad  experience  how 
little  benefit  they  received  from  any  of  these  fine- 
sounding  plans,  they  doggedly,  fought  each  new 
scheme  which  was  to  save  humanity. 

"  The  good  of  his  own  little  neighborhood  was 
all  that  each  peasant  cared  for.  His  life  was  so 
hard  that  he  had  no  time  or  wish  to  help  make  any 
improvement  for  the  vast  and  unknown  world  which 
began  for  him  a  few  miles  from  his  hut.  What  a 
commotion  would  arise  when  there  was  talk  of  im- 
proving the  roads!  Every  peasant  delegate  would 
sit  there  watching  the  map  of  the  district,  like  an 
old  wolf  with  keen  gray  eyes.  If  they  talked  of 
mending  a  road  near  his  village,  instantly  he  would 
shout  for  the  scheme,  and  would  try  to  drown  out 
the  hostile  cries  of  the  other  peasant  delegates  for 
whom  this  road  might  just  as  well  have  been  in  a 
foreign  land. 

"  And  so,  very  little  real  work  was  done  to  im- 
prove the  life  of  the  neighborhood.  All  this  affected 
the  attitude  of  the  peasants  toward  the  schools.  In 
brief,  they  were  disgusted.  They  declared  that  by 
sending  a  boy  to  school  you  spoiled  him  as  a  laborer; 
and  that  if  you  sent  your  daughter  there,  you  put  such 
ideas  into  her  head  that  often  she  went  to  the  cities 
and  towns  where  her  body  and  soul  soon  rotted  away. 
The  first  thing  a  girl  did  with  her  learning,  they  said, 


THE  VILLAGE  215 

was  to  write  love  letters.  That  was  the  beginning, 
and  God  only  knew  the  end  1 

*'  This  was  the  general  state  of  things  when  I 
started  teaching  school,  over  thirty  years  ago.  Even 
then,  there  were  many  teachers  and  other  idealists 
from  the  towns  who  had  a  glimmering  of  the  truth 
that  a  school  should  teach  the  peasants  things  that 
would  really  better  their  lives.  I  had  a  little  money, 
which  my  grandmother  had  left  to  me.  This  I  used 
for  the  new  ideas,  of  which  I  have  already  told  you; 
and  I  was  also  able  to  try  experiments  outside.  For 
example,  I  was  able  to  help  a  good  many  poor  devils 
who  on  account  of  their  drunkenness  were  being  sent 
as  teachers  to  the  loneliest  village  schools.  I  paid 
these  chaps  to  send  me  reports  as  to  what  the  peas- 
ants said  about  schools;  and  these  reports  I  kept 
piling  up,  in  order  to  strengthen  by  actual  facts  the 
appeal  I  intended  to  make  later  on  to  the  govern- 
ment authorities. 

"  In  one  report  a  peasant  said,  '  Our  teacher  reads 
out  of  a  book  about  how  the  dear  little  puppy  dog 
died,  and  with  this  fine  knowledge  she  sends  out  a 
boy  to  begin  his  life  on  the  farm!  '  This  was  only 
one  example  of  how  the  Russian  peasants  rebelled 
against  the  sentimental  streak  that  ran  through  our 
school-books  in  those  days.  They  had  been  drawn 
from  German  models;  and  the  planners  did  not  stop 
to  think  what  a  difference  there  is  between  German 
and  Russian  children.  The  Germans  are  sentimen- 
tal; the  Russians  are  realists  to  the  core.     And  when 


2i6  THE  VILLAGE 

these  Russian  children  heard  how  the  dear  little 
puppy  dog  died,  they  showed  nothing  but  disgust. 
Toward  all  such  drivel,  they  themselves  acted  like 
young  puppy  dogs  who  are  being  dragged  to  a  bath 
In  the  river.  Doggedly  they  refused  to  dive  into  this 
German  moonshine. 

"  As  time  went  on,  to  the  dry-as-dust  reading,  writ- 
ing, arithmetic,  the  school  authorities  added  many 
frills  and  furbelows,  until  the  peasant  in  his  disgust 
was  even  ready  to  return  to  the  primitive  schooling 
of  the  church.  The  priests  skillfully  took  advantage 
of  this,  and  started  little  parish  schools  which  were 
still  more  badly  run  than  were  those  of  the  Zemstvos. 
But  the  peasants  felt  that  here  at  least,  though  noth- 
ing was  done  to  lift  their  children  out  of  wretched- 
ness on  earth,  they  were  given  instruction  which 
opened  the  doors  of  heaven. 

"  So  the  work  went  blindly  on.  Since  1905,  with 
the  impetus  the  first  revolution  gave  at  that  time, 
there  has  been  a  considerable  speeding  up  and  much 
has  been  accomplished.  But  nevertheless  we  are 
left  to-day  with  the  bulk  of  the  problem  facing  us. 
How  now  can  our  schools  be  made  centers  of  real 
education  in  all  the  useful  ways  and  means  by  which 
a  great  free  people  shall  raise  its  standards  of  work 
and  life? 

"  As  yet,  the  government  has  taken  no  Important 
steps  in  this  line.  In  the  Ministry  of  Education 
there  is  a  school  committee,  I  hear,  but  I  fear  they 
are  quite  blinded  by  the  long  and  elaborate  program 


THE  VILLAGE  217 

they  are  drawing  up,  In  which  the  fundamental  ideas 
are  lost  in  a  maze  of  detail.  They  should  take  on 
more  practical  men,  fellows  who  come  right  out  of 
real  life  —  mining  engineers,  for  example,  and  agri- 
cultural experts  and  leaders  from  the  large  indus- 
tries; because  only  with  the  aid  of  such  men  can  there 
be  drawn  up  a  program  which  will  meet  our  needs 
to-day.  Instead  of  that,  they  plan  to  hold  soon  a 
colossal  congress  of  teachers;  and  there  will  be  so 
many  specialists  there  that  God  knows  what  will 
come  out  of  the  storm.  Round  and  round  the  ideas 
will  go  —  like  very  dry  leav-es  in  a  whirlwind ! 

"  In  the  meantime,  in  the  villages  we  must  prove 
to  the  peasants  the  value  of  schools.  The  school  I 
shall  build  will  be  very  small.  No  more  help  from 
the  government  —  I  shall  build  it  at  my  own  expense ; 
and  so  I  shall  have  the  freedom  I  need  to  make  it 
exactly  what  I  want.  The  wall  space  will  be  wholly 
free  from  portraits  of  benefactors.  Instead  of  their 
dull  faces,  we  shall  have  maps  of  America  and  other 
foreign  countries,  and  pictures  of  fine  model  farms. 

"  For  our  school  farm,  we  shall  begin  by  draining 
the  swam.p  in  the  hollow.  I  shall  do  this  myself 
with  the  help  of  the  boys.  Next  we  shall  clear  the 
field  of  stones,  and  crush  them  up  in  a  machine  and 
fill  the  mud  holes  in  the  road.  Then  we  shall  plow 
and  harrow  well;  and  after  we  have  sowed  the  field, 
we  shall  start  a  vegetable  garden.  Later  on,  an 
orchard.  We  must  have  some  beehives,  too;  and 
as  soon  as  we  get  time,  I  want  to  begin  breeding 


2i8  THE  VILLAGE 

fish  in  the  river.  We  must  have  many  kinds  of  work 
—  for  a  child  needs  variety.  To  pull  tough  weeds 
in  a  garden  all  day  is  enough  to  kill  his  soul.  We 
must  have  various  kinds  of  jobs,  and  the  child  must 
be  left  to  choose  the  ones  that  interest  him  most. 
But  at  the  same  time  he  must  be  shown  that  there  is 
some  work  which  nobody  likes,  and  yet  it  is  work 
that  must  be  done,  and  in  this  each  must  bear  his 
share.  In  brief,  we  must  teach  them  to  work  in 
common,  so  that  later  as  men  and  women  they  shall 
have  deep  in  their  souls  the  habit  of  true  cooperation. 
For  this  is  what  the  neighborhood  needs." 

Here  the  old  teacher  turned  to  Tarasov. 

"  I  should  like  this  little  farm,"  he  said,  "  to  be 
a  cooperative  affair.  Why  not  make  it  a  part  of 
that  larger  scheme  of  cooperative  farming  which  you 
and  I  and  those  two  peasants  are  planning  to  start? 
We  can  do  it  like  this.  I  shall  contribute  this  field 
of  mine  and  the  children  will  give  their  labor.  You 
others  will  contribute  the  use  of  your  horses  and  your 
farm  machines  and  whatever  added  labor  we  need. 
And  you  and  I  and  the  children  will  then  divide  the 
produce.  We  must  keep  a  strict  account  of  our 
profits,  for  unless  the  peasants  can  clearly  see  the  real 
advantage  to  be  gained,  they  will  never  take  our 
new  idea.  They  must  be  shown  just  how  much  each 
field  or  garden  cost  us  and  exactly  what  is  the  yield. 
This,  too,  will  be  a  fine  thing  for  the  school  —  for 
I  shall  make  the  children  learn  to  keep  all  such  ac- 
counts, and  so  get  the  business  training  they  need. 


THE  VILLAGE  219 

Our  books  must  be  kept  right  up  to  date.  Most 
Russian  peasants  keep  no  accounts,  and  so  there  is 
endless  waste  and  confusion.  We  must  teach  the 
new  generation  the  value  of  real  management." 

I  had  listened  with  deepening  Interest  to  the  teach- 
er's plan  for  a  school,  and  now  I  began  to  tell  him 
of  similar  schools  In  America.  When  I  spoke  of 
the  experiment  at  Gary,  Indiana,  at  once  he  was 
greatly  excited. 

"  That's  It  — '  the  school  of  life  ' !  "  he  exclaimed. 
**  That  Is  exactly  the  thing  for  us !  It  Is  what  I  have 
been  working  out.  And  now  what  a  wonderful  thing 
It  is  to  hear  that  men  in  other  lands  have  been  travel- 
ing rigbt  along  the  same  road !  I  tell  you  when  this 
war  is  done,  all  the  school-teachers  in  the  world  must 
promptly  get  in  touch  with  each  other!  " 

He  questioned  me  in  close  detail  as  to  our  new 
American  schools,  and  when  I  could  not  give  him  the 
accurate  knowledge  he  wanted,  a  hungry  gleam  came 
into  his  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  how  long  it  would  take  me  to  learn  to 
read  English,"  he  said  softly.  "  I  must  read  all 
about  this  work  myself.  I  do  not  want  brief  arti- 
cles; I  want  to  read  whole  books  about  it.  I  want 
to  go  through  carefully  the  manuals  used  by  the 
teachers  themselves." 

"  You  need  not  bother  to  read  it  in  English,"  Tar- 
asov  interjected.  "  For  my  friend  will  send  these 
books  over  to  me  from  America,  and  I  promise  to 
translate  them.     I  know  a   Russian  publisher  who 


220  THE  VILLAGE 

will  be  glad  to  print  such  books,  as  soon  as  condi- 
tions settle  down." 

But  the  teacher  shook  his  head. 

"  That  might  take  two  or  three  years,"  he  re- 
joined. "  And  I  am  too  old  to  wait  so  long.  No, 
I  shall  tackle  the  job  at  once.  This  fall  and  win- 
ter I  shall  learn.  Tell  your  friend  that  as  soon  as 
he  sends  the  books  I  shall  be  able  to  read  them. 
And  with  their  guidance  you  and  I  must  plan  out 
this  whole  experiment.  Of  course  we  must  not 
blindly  swallow  the  American  scheme;  we  shall  take 
from  it  only  what  is  adaptable  to  our  Russian  life." 

"  Why  don't  you  make  your  plan  international?  " 
I  suggested.  "  Let  me  put  in  a  few  hundred  roubles 
and  become  the  American  partner  in  your  new  co- 
operative school." 

When  this  was  translated,  the  teacher  leaped  up 
and  warmly  gripped  my  hand  in  his.  The  silver 
spectacles  dropped  off  his  nose,  and  swung  by  their 
black  cord  at  his  waist,  as  with  rapid  gestures  he 
talked  in  his  low  guttural  voice: 

"  This  is  the  last  stone  we  needed  I  Now  we  can 
lay  the  foundations  at  once  1  I  have  already  talked 
to  those  two  other  peasants,  and  I  am  sure  they  will 
come  in.  How  much  longer  will  your  American 
friend  be  here?  "  he  asked  of  Tarasov.  And  when 
the  latter  told  him  that  I  was  to  leave  the  following 
day,  the  old  man  rose  abruptly. 

"  Then,  gentlemen,  good-night !  "  he  cried.  "  It 
is  my  wife  who  owns  this  land,  and  she  has  the  money. 


THE  VILLAGE  221 

too.  I  must  not  let  her  get  to  sleep;  I  must  talk  this 
out  with  her  at  once  1  To-morrow  I  shall  come  to 
you  ready  to  do  business!  " 

4 

The  next  day  bright  and  early  he  appeared. 

"  I  have  talked  to  my  wife  half  the  night,"  he  an- 
nounced, "  and  everything  is  settled.  We  have  de- 
cided to  call  it  The  Cooperative  Farming  School. 
In  place  of  our  old  cabin  we  shall  build  a  good  strong 
house  of  logs  for  ourselves  and  the  school  children. 
I  could  not  sleep;  so  at  sunrise  I  went  to  those  two 
peasants,  and  they  have  agreed  to  contribute  labor, 
horses,  plows  and  tools.  You  shall  do  the  same, 
and  your  friend  from  America  shall  put  in  some 
money.  A  very  little  will  suffice.  Let  him  hold  one 
of  our  twenty  shares  —  just  enough  to  prove  to  us 
the  interest  of  his  country.  That  will  have  a  value 
here  —  for  I  know  these  peasants  well;  and  as  soon 
as  the  word  goes  around  that  we  have  an  American 
partner,  they  will  begin  to  nod  their  heads  and  say, 
'  This  is  a  big  thing,  brothers.'  And  they  will  all 
be  trying  to  get  their  children  into  our  school.  The 
local  village  merchants  will  grow  quite  green  with 
envy.  But  we  will  not  take  their  money.  We  want 
no  benefactors  here!  " 

"  Still,"  I  proposed  maliciously,  "  If  I  am  to  be  a 
partner,  don't  you  think  you  might  hang  up  in  the 
school  a  good  big  American  portrait  " —  I  paused, 
and  the  teacher  eyed  me  with  sharp  uneasiness  and 


22  2  THE  VILLAGE 

dismay — "of  Abraham  Lincoln?"  I  ended.  In- 
stantly his  expression  cleared. 

"Excellent!  We  shall  do  It!"  he  cried.  He 
talked  rapidly  on  of  his  plans  for  the  school. 

"  We  must  take  very  few  pupils  at  first  —  about 
thirty  at  the  most,"  he  said.  "  Some  of  them  shall 
live  with  us,  for  my  wife  and  I  are  childless  and  we 
are  both  getting  old;  we  want  to  see  a  crop  of  chil- 
dren growing  right  before  our  eyes.  So  we  shall 
keep  them  here  all  year.  In  the  winter  we  shall 
study  from  books,  and  the  rest  of  the  year  we  shall 
work  in  the  fields  and  in  the  woods  and  down  on  the 
river."     The  teacher  rose  abruptly. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  "  if  such  education  years 
ago  had  been  spread  all  over  this  country,  there 
would  not  have  been  any  war  or  any  need  of  a  revolu- 
tion. There  would  have  been  steady  growth  instead, 
a  steady  rise  In  well-being  and  intelligent  ways  of 
work  that  would  have  put  our  people  far  on  the  road 
to  real  freedom.  And  Russia  would  have  been  so 
strong  that  Germany  would  not  have  dared  to  start 
this  war  of  conquest.  For  our  country  Is  as  large 
as  all  the  rest  of  Europe  combined;  and  as  a  free 
intelligent  people,  we  could  have  had  the  strength 
of  a  giant,  so  tall  that  his  head  is  In  the  clouds! 

"  As  It  Is,  we  must  do  our  utmost  to  help  defeat 
the  Germans  now.  We  who  see  the  danger  must 
make  our  neighbors  see  it,  too.  '  War  or  slavery,' 
we  must  say.  No  matter  what  confusion,  shame  and 
ruin  shall  befall  —  the  whole  nation  toppling  down 


THE  VILLAGE  223 

—  still  we  must  work  on  and  on.  '  War  or  slav- 
ery !  '  we  must  say,  in  every  village,  every  hut  —  until 
at  last  the  peasants  rise.  The  German  autocracy 
must  be  gripped,  and  slowly,  slowly  choked  to  death. 
It  will  be  a  long  job,  brothers.  You  Americans  must 
understand  that  you  have  years  of  blood  before  you, 
and  that  whether  you  win  or  lose  will  depend  on 
whether  Germany  can  recruit  her  armies  here.  We 
have  twelve  million  fighting  men.  Two  million  may 
decide  this  war  —  one,  two,  three  years  from  now. 
Who  shall  get  them?  You  or  Germany  ?  That  de- 
cision rests  with  you. 

"  If  I  were  an  American  I  would  say,  '  By  the 
love  of  Christ  and  Liberty,  these  Russians  shall  be 
made  our  friends.  By  our  deeds  we  will  make  them 
understand.'  The  German  agents  tell  us  here,  '  The 
Americans  are  money  hogs.  They  have  joined  with 
England  in  this  war  to  build  a  world  power  that  shall 
grab  all  the  richest  lands  of  the  earth.  They  want 
to  make  you  fight  their  war  while  they  crush  your 
revolution,  so  that  their  millionaires  may  be  free  to 
go  on  with  their  looting  of  mankind.'  Such  lies  are 
being  believed  by  our  peasants,  who  are  blind  and 
weary  of  war.  Remember  we  have  already  lost 
three  million  killed,  and  two  million  more  of  our 
young  men  have  died  of  starvation  and  disease.  Be 
patient,  friendly,  careful,  kind.  Think  long  and 
hard  —  but  not  too  slowly  —  plan  your  deeds;  then 
act  like  men.  You  must  act  in  such  a  way  that  while 
you  fight  the  Germans  among  us,  you  will  make  us 


224  THE  VILLAGE 

understand  that  you  are  our  brothers,  with  no  wish 
to  interfere  with  our  will  to  be  free.  Brothers  of 
liberty  you  must  be.     Only  so  can  the  war  be  won. 

"  And  after  that,  education !  "  The  teacher's  low 
voice  was  so  intense  that  it  trembled  a  little  in  spite 
of  him.  "  Education  all  over  Russia,"  he  said. 
"  And  then  no  more  bloody  wars  in  the  world.  For 
in  twenty  years  we  shall  have  at  least  two  hundred 
million  people  here,  and  they  will  all  be  for  keeping 
the  peace.  They  will  be  as  your  people  have  been  — 
too  busy  with  their  inner  growth  to  be  seeking  for- 
eign quarrels.  The  work  of  developing  our  coun- 
try, which  is  one-sixth  of  the  earth;  and  the  work  of 
developing  so  many  people,  so  many  children's  grow- 
ing minds  —  I  tell  you  it  is  staggering.  And  it 
would  be  a  crime  if  we  let  ourselves  be  blind  and 
think  it  can  soon  be  done.     It  may  take  generations. 

"  I'll  tell  you  one  of  the  plans  I  have.  It  is  to 
organize  all  the  boys  in  companies  and  regiments. 
This  was  once  tried  by  Peter  the  Great,  but  only  to 
make  them  slaves  of  his  rule;  and  that  is  not  my  plan 
at  all.  I  would  plant  in  their  minds  the  great  idea  of 
marching,  fighting  and  working  together  in  a  great 
free  brotherhood,  which  when  it  spread  to  other 
lands  would  be  a  tremendous  force  in  defense  of 
the  liberties  and  the  peace  of  mankind." 

"  It  has  begun  already,"  I  said.  I  began  to  tell 
him  of  the  Boy  Scouts  in  England  and  America. 
And  as  he  listened  in  growing  surprise,   his  lean 


THE  VILLAGE  225 

wrinkled  powerful  face  grew  boyish  in  its  eager  de- 
light. 

"  What  a  thing  it  is!  "  he  cried  huskily.  "  War 
is  bad,  a  curse  on  the  earth;  and  yet  how  it  smashes 
open  our  minds!  Here,  for  years  in  our  village,  I 
have  been  thinking  out  a  plan;  and  now  I  find  it  has 
been  growing  in  other  men's  minds  all  over  the 
world!  All  right,  brothers,  so  much  the  better! 
Now  what  shall  we  talk  of?  What  next,  my 
friends?" 

He  began  to  walk  excitedly.  Presently  with  an 
anxious  frown  he  sat  down  again  on  the  grass. 

"  But  remember,  this  is  no  time,"  he  said,  "  for 
us  to  get  excited,  and  blind  to  the  actual  state  of 
things.  It  is  all  very  well  to  make  fine  plans  —  but 
what  have  we  got  to  build  on?  Now  I  shall  try  in 
a  businesslike  way  to  tell  you  how  the  people  feel 
—  so  that  your  country  may  know  the  truth. 

"  At  the  start  of  the  revolution,  the  peasants  in 
this  district  prepared  to  take  over  all  the  land  of 
the  private  owners.  And  they  said,  '  We  shall  not 
pay  them  a  kopeck.  These  fine  barins  robbed  and 
exploited  us  for  generations.  Now  it  is  our  turn, 
brothers.  We  shall  no  longer  waste  our  strength 
pushing  our  bellies  against  the  lever  to  pull  up 
stumps  from  unused  ground.  We  shall  take  the 
rich  lands  of  the  barins  themselves !  '  I  said  to  them 
in  answer: 

*' '  No  injustice  of  the  past  can  be  righted  by  mere 


226  THE  VILLAGE 

robbery  now.  The  job  is  not  so  simple.  Surely 
you  must  get  more  land,  and  the  barins  must  give  up 
what  you  need.  But  let  us  take  time  to  find  a  way 
by  which  it  can  be  thoroughly  done.  Let  us  make  a 
good  job  of  this.' 

"  Some  of  the  peasants  listened  and  grew  more 
moderate  in  tone.  And  since  then  more  and  more 
of  them  have  come  around  to  my  point  of  view.  For 
they  know  I  don't  care  for  my  own  little  life.  I  have 
little  more  land  than  the  average  peasant;  and  what 
I  have,  I  shall  gladly  devote  to  this  school  farm  of 
which  I  spoke.  But  I  care  very  much  for  the  com- 
mon good;  and  if  in  their  present  ignorant  state,  the 
peasants  should  seize  the  land  from  the  owners,  half 
of  it  would  suffer  from  lack  of  good  cultivation;  and 
so  the  crops  would  soon  decrease  and  there  would 
be  terrible  famine  here.  And  I  say  this  must  not 
be.  Before  they  are  fit  to  own  all  the  land,  the 
peasants  must  learn  two  great  things.  First,  they 
must  be  taught  modern  farming  —  how  to  get  the 
most  out  of  the  soil;  and  second,  every  one  of  them 
must  learn  to  work  for  the  good  of  all.  At  present 
they  are  as  suspicious  of  each  other  as  gray  wolves. 
By  the  right  kind  of  teaching  they  must  be  shown 
what  the  revolution  means.  It  means  that  every 
one  must  be  made  happy  and  satisfied  with  his  life; 
that  instead  of  dragging  down  those  at  the  top,  the 
lowest  must  be  brought  right  up,  by  education  and 
practical  help. 

"  There  must  be  no  difference  made  in  our  schools 


THE  VILLAGE  227 

between  the  children  of  peasants  and  those  of  any 
other  man.  The  school  must  be  a  meeting  ground 
and  draw  all  the  children  of  Russia  together.  They 
cannot  start  too  soon  to  be  friends.  Every  school 
must  be  made  so  good  that  no  gentleman  will  think, 
it  unfit  for  the  education  of  his  child.  To  do  this, 
we  shall  be  forced  to  spend  hundreds  of  millions  of 
roubles  a  year  —  but  it  will  be  a  rich  investment! 
For  from  such  schools  there  will  grow  up  a  new  gen- 
eration of  people  —  schoolmates,  brothers,  every 
one ! 

"  I  believe  that  the  people  should  own  all  the  land. 
Let  them  little  by  little  take  it  away  from  those  who 
now  have  more  than  enough.  And  meanwhile  our 
new  government  should  Introduce  heavy  taxes  upon 
capital  of  all  kinds,  that  will  slowly,  year  by  year, 
cut  into  private  fortunes  and  so  lead  to  equality. 
But  the  money  taken  from  the  rich  must  be  used  to  so 
raise  the  level  of  all,  that  the  rich  will  not  suffer 
by  the  change  —  except  to  lose  their  snobbishness, 
which  is  the  very  worst  thing  that  they  own. 

"  Now  Is  the  time  for  such  fellows  as  us  to  work 
day  and  night,  to  prove  to  the  peasants  that  we  are 
workers  like  themselves;  and  that,  while  we  want 
them  to  have  more  land,  we  are  also  searching  for 
better  ways  by  which  they  can  get  more  out  of  the 
soil  with  less  labor  than  at  present.  For  that,  we 
must  have  modern  machines  —  the  very  best."  He 
turned  to  Tarasov  abruptly. 

*'  The  last  time  that  you  were  here,  you  spoke  of  a 


22  8  THE  VILLAGE 

farm  tractor.  How  much  would  such  an  engine 
cost?" 

"  Six  thousand  roubles,"  Tarasov  replied. 

"  I'll  put  up  half,"  said  the  old  man  promptly. 

"  I'll  try  to  raise  the  rest,"  I  said,  "  and  I'll  try 
to  have  the  tractor  sent  over  from  America."  The 
teacher  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"You  must  do  it,"  he  cried,  "and  do  it  soon  I 
For  I  tell  you  when  that  great  steel  horse  comes  up 
the  river  on  a  barge,  it  will  cause  such  excitement 
here  that  all  thought  of  rioting  will  disappear.  Even 
now  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  see  that  mighty  engine 
forging  along  the  river  banks,  plowing  not  only 
the  arable  soil  but  also  opening  up  new  fields  by 
tearing  through  bushes  and  small  trees.  And  I  see 
the  silent  peasants  watch,  with  a  deep  excitement  in 
their  eyes.  We  must  not  be  too  eager  to  show  we 
wish  to  help  them.  No  benefactor  poses  here.  We 
must  just  go  about  our  business;  and  not  until  they 
come  and  say,  '  Please  bring  your  tractor  to  our 
fields,'  shall  we  offer  to  plow  their  land.  We  shall 
charge  them  exactly  what  it  costs.  Then  we  shall 
say,  '  Why  don't  you  save  your  money  instead  of  pay- 
ing us  for  this?  It  is  good  business,  brothers. 
Gather  your  neighbors  and  raise  a  fund  and  buy  an 
engine  just  like  ours.'  So  we  shall  spread  coopera- 
tive groups,  and  meanwhile  we  shall  work  out  the 
whole  plan  of  farming  the  land  in  common. 

"  The  main  danger  will  come  from  Berlin.  The 
Germans  will  never  leave  us  alone;  for  their  rulers 


THE  VILLAGE  229 

know  that  If  they  allow  us  to  grope  our  way  through 
the  darkness  now,  we  shall  reach  a  day  of  freedom  so 
splendid  and  so  dazzling  that  it  will  flood  Europe  like 
the  sun  —  and  autocracy  will  slink  from  the  earth. 
And  so,  as  they  have  done  in  the  past,  they  will  try 
to  put  us  Russians  down,  and  keep  us  a  nation  of 
muzhiks  —  slaves  on  our  farms,  to  feed  them  in 
their  towns.  There  are  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
Germans  here,  but  you  cannot  show  me  one  who 
has  ever  tried  to  do  anything  to  improve  our  village 
life.  They  have  always  tried  to  make  friends  with 
the  merchants  in  our  cities,  in  order  to  exploit  the 
peasants.  And  if  they  now  force  a  conqueror's 
peace,  you  may  be  sure  that  it  will  be  at  the  expense 
of  the  villages. 

"  The  man  is  blind  who  does  not  see  that  blood 
must  flow  in  Russia  still.  Never  mind  what  they  do 
in  Petrograd.  We  shall  not  make  peace  with  that 
gang  in  Berlin.  If  they  come  and  try  to  take  our 
grain,  we  will  fight,  I  tell  you,  we  will  fight  —  not  in 
a  great  army  but  in  small  bands  of  resolute  men  who 
know  the  country,  know  where  to  hide  in  the  forest 
and  where  to  strike  from  the  high  river  bank.  We 
shall  be  like  wasps  all  over  Russia,  stinging  those 
big  German  hogs  when  they  come  and  try  to  root  out 
the  food  which  we  have  hidden  in  the  ground.  They 
will  be  forced  to  take  by  violence  all  the  grain  they 
get  from  us,  and  they  will  do  such  murder  here  as 
will  put  an  end  forever  to  any  chance  of  our  friend- 
ship so  long  as  the  Kaiser  rules  in  Berlin. 


230  THE  VILLAGE 

"  So  we  shall  go  on  —  through  to  the  end.  But 
at  last  when  the  war  is  won,  we  must  do  much  more 
than  that.  We  must  find  out  all  the  things  that  have 
made  the  Germans  strong,  both  the  good  and  the 
bad.  The  bad  we  must  uproot  from  the  world,  but 
all  that  is  good  we  must  hold  as  tight  as  a  man  grips 
his  plow  upon  rough  ground —  for  only  so  can  we 
make  the  earth  rich  to  yield  a  new  life  for  the  chil- 
dren. I  speak  not  of  Germany  alone.  We  must 
get  the  good  from  all  countries  —  especially  from 
their  villages. 

"  In  this  village  I  watch  the  people.  I  see  them 
pass  along  the  road.  I  look  down  on  the  river  — 
the  boats  go  by.  And  I  feel  a  deep  strong  power 
here.  It  is  the  power  of  daily  life.  It  has  been 
strained  to  the  breaking  point  in  the  big  towns  and 
cities;  but  out  here  in  the  villages  the  daily  life  of 
men  goes  on.  It  is  like  a  vast  reservoir  containing 
all  that  men  and  women  have  done  day  and  night 
for  thousands  of  years  —  what  they  have  wanted, 
hoped  and  dreamed.  And  this  is  what  we  must  build 
on. 

"  It  is  time  for  every  one  of  us,  no  matter  how 
weary  he  be  from  the  war,  to  take  a  fresh  start  and 
ask,  'What  can  I  do?'  I  myself  am  a  country 
teacher.  There  must  be  millions  of  us  in  the  world; 
and  every  teacher  among  us,  I  say,  must  watch  his 
people  closely  and  try  to  help  them  climb  a  hill  where 
they  can  see  out  over  the  earth.  This  is  hard  for 
them  to  do.     Their  lives  are  cramped.     They  live  in 


THE  VILLAGE  231 

small  huts,  and  at  work  In  their  fields  they  keep  their 
eyes  upon  the  ground.  So  they  have  near-sighted 
souls.  But  even  among  such  people,  I  watch  and  I 
see  that  most  of  them,  driven  by  a  mysterious  force 
which  seems  to  have  risen  in  this  war,  every  now 
and  then  climb  the  hill  and  try  to  see  the  villages 
that  are  scattered  over  the  world.  And  so  I  believe 
it  is  in  all  lands.  Out  of  their  huts  the  peasants  go, 
and  when  they  have  reached  the  top  of  the  hill, 
they  scowl  in  the  blinding  sun  up  there.  And  they 
ask: 

*'  '  Where  are  you,  brothers?  And  what  have  we 
done,  in  the  name  of  Christ?  Why  have  we  killed 
each  other?  What  did  we  want  down  there  In  the 
darkness?  To  kill  each  other?  Not  at  all,  for  it 
is  a  foolish  business.  We  were  driven  to  It  like 
sheep,  by  the  crime  that  was  started  in  Berlin.  Now 
it  is  time  to  rise  like  men,  and  talk  together,  find 
out  what  we  really  want.  We  want  better  lives, 
more  food  and  clothes  and  better  huts  and  finer 
schools  for  our  boys  and  girls.  You  must  tell  us 
how  you  live  and  work  —  all  your  latest  tricks  in 
farming,  all  your  latest  tricks  In  schools.  We  must 
see  each  other  clearly,  and  we  must  find  how  to  stop 
all  wars.  Not  by  a  whirlpool  of  chatter  like  that 
going  on  in  Petrograd,  but  by  hard  slow  work  and 
learning,  we  must  climb  the  long  road  to  a  better 
world.' 

"  I  say  that  the  teacher  can  help  them  learn.  But 
to  be  successful,  he  must  not  try  to  climb  too  often 


232  THE  VILLAGE 

to  the  heights.  He  must  stay  down  in  the  village, 
help  the  peasant  mend  his  plow  and  help  the  house- 
wife mend  her  stove,  and  work  and  live  every  day 
with  the  children.  For  only  when  the  teachers  live 
deep  down  in  the  life  of  the  people  can  we  ever 
dare  to  hope  that  the  people  will  climb  up  the  hill. 
For  I  tell  you  we  must  look  ahead  with  clear  eyes 
and  steady  nerves;  we  must  set  to  work  in  a  prac- 
tical way  —  and  basing  all  our  planning  on  the  power 
of  daily  life,  which  flows  like  a  great  river  under- 
neath the  storm  of  this  war,  we  must  build  a  new 
world  through  the  children  —  so  slowly  that  you 
will  never  be  able  to  say  to  yourself,  '  Now  it  is 
here.'  " 

5 

The  teacher  stopped,  and  for  a  few  moments 
nothing  was  said.  Then  he  looked  up  with  a  scowl 
of  annoyance.  The  many  rooks  in  the  trees  over- 
head were  making  a  terrific  noise. 

"  Let  us  leave  these  devils,"  he  proposed,  "  and 
go  into  the  house." 

We  went  into  Tarasov's  workroom.  There  the 
old  man  laid  hold  of  a  plow  and  began  to  examine 
it  closely.  He  questioned  Tarasov  about  it  and  for 
some  minutes  they  grew  absorbed,  while  I  used  the 
time  to  fill  in  my  notes.  Then  I  asked  him  many 
questions  about  the  war  and  the  village  life.  We 
talked  for  several  hours  more.  When  we  had 
lunched,  I  left  them  and  went  for  a  stroll  up  the 
riverside.     When  I  came  back  they  were  still  there. 


THE  VILLAGE  233 

Our  departure  for  the  city  was  put  off  to  the  follow- 
ing day. 

The  next  morning  we  rose  early,  breakfasted  and 
packed  our  bags.  We  had  arranged  with  a  peasant 
to  bring  his  dory  and  take  us  out  to  the  small  river 
steamer  when  it  came  by.  But  now  when  we  looked 
down  from  the  bluff  there  was  no  dory  to  be  seen,  and 
we  could  already  hear  the  steamer  tooting  for  the 
village  landing  a  little  over  a  mile  away.  Tarasov 
hurried  off  for  a  dory,  while  I  took  my  bags  and  went 
down  the  steep  path. 

On  a  raft  of  logs  moored  to  the  bank,  I  saw  a 
small  ragged  boy  who  was  fishing.  Then  I  spied 
the  teacher  coming  down  from  his  cabin  on  the  bluff 
nearby,  with  a  towel  on  his  arm,  for  his  morning 
swim.  He  went  out  to  the  urchin  on  the  raft  and 
sat  down  beside  him,  drew  up  the  line  and  examined 
the  bait,  then  let  it  drop  back.  The  next  moment 
he  caught  sight  of  me,  and  jumping  up  eagerly  he 
called  out, 

"  You  are  just  in  time  for  a  last  swim !  " 

We  proceeded  quickly  to  undress.  I  remember 
the  teacher's  long  lean  body,  muscular,  brown,  as  he 
poised  on  the  log.  Then  he  dove,  and  with  long 
over-head  strokes  swam  out  into  the  river,  where  he 
turned  over  on  his  back  and  blew  like  a  porpoise. 
In  a  few  moments,  all  aglow,  we  were  dressing  in 
the  crisp  cool  air.  Tarasov  came  hastily  down  the 
bluff  with  his  enormous  bag  on  his  shoulders.  A 
dory  put  out  from  the  opposite  bank,  and  the  steamer 


234  THE  VILLAGE 

came  puffing  around  the  bend.  The  dory  reached 
us  just  in  time.  We  threw  in  our  luggage.  Then  I 
turned  back,  and  the  teacher  warmly  grasped  my 
hand. 

Remember  that  you  are  to  come  again.'* 
Yes,  I'll  come,"  I  promised  him. 

*'  And  in  your  country,  tell  them  —  no  matter 
what  happens,  remember  us  —  the  people  in  the  viU 
lages!  " 

"  I'll  try  to  tell  them." 

Already  we  were  out  in  the  stream.  The  steamer 
approached  and  slowed  down  to  half  speed.  We 
threw  a  rope  to  a  deck  hand,  who  made  it  fast  for 
a  moment,  while  with  our  bags  we  clambered  up;  and 
the  steamer  forged  ahead.  Behind  us,  on  the  raft 
of  logs,  the  teacher  was  standing  motionless,  with 
his  towel  upon  one  arm.  Catching  sight  of  me,  he 
started  to  wave  —  but  then  he  turned  back  suddenly. 
For  the  urchin  beside  him  gave  a  shrill  cry.  He  had 
hooked  a  fish  —  a  big  one  I  The  teacher  helped  him 
pull  it  in. 


THE   END 


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